


The Life and Lies of Y/N Y/L/N (Secretly Dating Your College Professor and Lying to All Your Friends)

by winchesterfiesta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester - Freeform, Dean Winchester Smut, Dean Winchester/Reader - Freeform, Dean Winchester/You - Freeform, Dry Humping, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Frottage, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5052712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesterfiesta/pseuds/winchesterfiesta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is your Professor of English Literature, after you meet you two wind up forming a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yes, Professor

“Y/N Y/L/N, you’ll be doing desk duty on a Tuesday evening,” The woman informed you, wrinkling her nose so as to push her glasses further back up your face, “In the English department since that’s your chosen field of study. If you have any questions please feel free to come down to reception.”

The way she said the latter part made you feel like you were anything  _but_  welcome.

“Thank you,” You smile, jotting a note into your notebook and rounding the corner before she gets the chance to flash that sickly grin at you again. She opened her mouth each time she did, allowing the strong smell of peppermint to permeate. Perhaps you might develop an aversion by the end of the year.

“Y/N!” Jess calls from the end of the hallway, the spring in her step was obvious, no doubt due to the fact she’d been with Cas all day, “When are you doing desk duty?”

“Tuesday evenings,” You groan, “I mean mandatory secretary work? That borders on abuse of power, I’m telling you.”  

She adjusts her books, clasping them tighter to her chest as you weave your way through the crowds of people – God save those still waiting in the sprawling line -, “It might not be that bad. You get to be right by Professor Winchester’s classroom, that’s never a bad thing.”

“Maybe by the end of the year I’ll be able to talk to him without blushing.”

Professor Winchester was your English teacher. You were well of legal age but that smile, that flirtatious wink that he shot in your direction comprised a recipe for disaster. University was supposed to be the prime time for dating. You, however, were using it to third wheel and daydream about men who were far out of your league. It wasn’t a bad way to spend an existence, you supposed.

“Have you got a class with him next?” She asks, pulling you from your reverie. Her lips curve into a smirk, she knows exactly what you were daydreaming about and she doesn’t have to voice it to pull you up on it.

Cheeks flushing, you nod, “Yeah, he asked us to come back for an extra class.”

“Extra classes? Classes have barely started, he’s piling on the work already?” She teases, a wide grin overcoming her. Glee brimmed in her eyes; the opportunities for teasing were never-ending. You suppose you’d given her the ammunition by blushing.

You shrug, “He wanted to go over some of the basics, said that some people might find it useful.”

She bursts into laughter, “You got the highest grade in our school for English and  _you’re_  going to an extra class?”

Elbowing her swiftly in the ribs, you glance around quickly to make sure nobody is listening, “Be quiet or I’ll tell Cas about what really happened to the honey he collected,” You threaten, watching her eyes narrow in response.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” You smirk at the defeated expression, “I have to get to class anyway, try to behave yourself with Cas. And save me some of those cupcakes!”

You don’t get to hear her reply, the bustle of the corridor is far too loud. But you do see her, entwining her arm with Cas’ and sauntering off towards the exit. Apparently they were headed on a picnic this afternoon, some kind of a celebration for their anniversary that included homemade goods and a Desperate Housewives-esque wicker basket; it was as sweet as it was sickening in all honesty. You were glad to see she was happy though.

The hallway is much more crowded than at your previous school, despite the entirely lacking number of pupils taking the English course here. You’ve found that this side of the building always tends to be crowded. Part of you wanted to blame it on Professor Winchester, he was well known around the campus and you’d heard hushed whisperings of his name before you even knew who he was. He was popular to say the least.

Shoving and pushing wasn’t entirely something you were anticipated, nor was taking an elbow to the face as you struggled through the crowd.

You wince, tears stinging in your eyes at the pain flaming in your cheekbone. At least it wasn’t your nose. A spontaneous nose bleed wouldn’t have been the sexiest way to enter the class, you think, weaving your way to the classroom door.

Nobody else is here yet. Internal panic sets in, mentally you start running through your classes and your fingers fumble as they struggle with the zip of your bag. His voice surprises you.

“Y/N,” He grins, “You’re the first one here, come on in.”

Stammering your thanks, you make your way into the hall. God you look like a bumbling idiot. His smile doesn’t cease though, in fact it widens; it’s as if he’s somehow enamoured by your fluster. You’d been waiting long enough for  _someone_  to be. You tear your eyes away from him as you head towards the back of the hall, it’s hard to focus on walking with legs like jelly but the sight before you had made it practically impossible: he was bent over, shirt sleeves rolled up to expose a slice of toned forearm and lips pursed to a pout as he mumbled his way through the notes under his breath.

“Would you mind taking a seat closer to the front?” He asks, an innocuous enough request but one that gets your heart pumping blood at what should be a physically impossible rate.

Lifting your bag, you nod, “Of course sir.”

You swear that he smirks before looking back at the papers. Playing it over in your head a few more times, you settle your bag on an empty desk at the front. Other people  _still_  aren’t here. Stealing a small glance at the clock, it’s with utter mortification that you realise you’re ten minutes early.  _Fuck._

Did people show up early at college?

Reassured by the glance he tosses in your direction, you take your seat. The rustle of papers is the only real sound in the room. Every so often he lets out a little ‘mhm’; it seems to be when he finds satisfaction in whatever work he’s marking.

He looks up again, “You got a scholarship Y/N, is that right?”

“Yes sir,” You answer, his curious gaze an obvious request for you to explain, “I got the highest score in English in my county, I got a few offers for scholarships.”

It crosses your mind how utterly obnoxious you must sound; would he think differently of you now?

He appears oddly impressed. Shifting through a few more papers, he continues, “So what made you decide to come here? Why not Harvard or Yale or somewhere a little more academically ambitious?” He looks up, “Not that this isn’t a great school, I was just wondering what made you come here.”

“I heard the English department was good.”

He’s definitely smirking now, wickedly at that. He chuckles softly, “I think I’ll take that as a compliment, Y/N.”

A witty flirtation hangs on the tip of your tongue, sadly it’s not to be. A perky blond, who you know to be called Jo, stumbles into the room laughing. Accompanied by her darker haired friend, she shoots you an impassive glance before beaming at Professor Winchester.

“Hey Professor,” She greets, voice light and cheery. Faux femininity clogs it; you’re not one to pit yourself against other girls nor put them down but the girlish twang is painfully accentuated.

“Afternoon, Jo is it?”

Her face seems to fall slightly, “Yeah, I’m Jo and this is Ruby,” She gestures to the brunette.

Ruby waves, gripping onto Jo’s cardigan and pulling her close to whisper in her ear as they head to the back. Professor Winchester smiles impassively in their general direction, clearing his throat and setting up the power-point for the lecture. No comments are made about where they sit: almost as far back as they can go.

People spill into the room more readily now. Taking seats here there and everywhere, the row beside you remains empty. It almost makes you a little uncomfortable.

As soon as Professor Winchester starts talking those feelings dissipate. He talks in such a powerful way, making jokes and using hand gestures; it actually feels like he’s trying to engage you. The tightness of his shirt doesn’t do any harm either. You’re sure he must have noticed you staring at his chest, the way that the plaid hugs it. He throws out questions, gaze sauntering around the room and – more than a few times – landing on you.

Thankfully you managed to answer the questions correctly, discouraged only by a mocking glance shot at you from Jo. Ruby bursts into giggles.

Professor Winchester shoots them an admonishing glance before turning his attention to the laptop, becoming engrossed with trying to find whatever it was he wanted to print. He seems to be a bit of a technophobe.

“Ignore them,” The soft voice of a redhead behind you chimes in, “They’re not great with people who’re more intellectual than they are. Jo’s nice and all, but Ruby brings out the worst in her, I don’t know what it is.”

You smile, “Thanks. I hate looking like a know it all.”

She giggles, “You don’t. You just look smart, some people don’t know how to handle that.”

“Like Hermione?” You ask, her Harry Potter t-shirt not going unnoticed by you. You’re wearing a plain one, decidedly lacklustre and probably boring but you’d yet to tackle the washing pile.

“ _Exactly_  like Hermione.”

By the end of the Professor’s technological interlude you’ve pretty much befriended the girl. She’s called Charlie. He walks around handing out the sheets, talking about the contents of them and what it is exactly that he wants you to look over. His eyes seer into you as he passes over your slip, hand brushing against yours. You’re flushing again..

Charlie wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, forcing you to stifle the laugh that bubbles in your throat. There does seem to be some kind of tension in his stolen glances. Although there’s a fair chance that those are entirely one-sided. Digging her in the ribs with your elbow, she shushes in time for the Professor reaching the front of the classroom again; he’d been delayed by Jo who’d tilted her head to the side and asked for a repeat of the explanation.

“So make sure that you go through all of these, just so you get an idea of what you’re doing, everybody get that?”

Various nods and mumblings fill the room with buzz. People rise to their feet, starting to pack the sheets away; most of them stuff them untidily into their bags and you almost cringe at the thought of the crumpled paper.

The back starts to file out, Jo surprisingly first in line to leave. You’d have been expecting her to be last. Ruby is in tow, lagging not too far behind her. One of the boys, you don’t know his name but he seems smart as hell, lingers. You swear you see him check out Ruby’s ass.

“Are you coming?” Charlie asks, yanking her backpack onto her shoulders impatiently, not bothering to adjust the mismatching strap lengths.

“You go ahead, I want to make sure these are all organised first.”

She smirks, assuming ulterior motives on your part; she’s genuinely incorrect about those but you’re not about to fight her on it. A significant chunk of you is grateful that she’s offered to let you come over to her place though, you don’t think you’d want to interrupt the anniversary sex that Cas and Jess were no doubt having all over the apartment.

Satisfied with the order of things, you pop them into your bag, pulling it over your shoulder and smoothing your top down as you ready yourself to leave.

“Y/N?” Professor Winchester calls from not too far in front of you, “Would you mind waiting behind for a moment?”


	2. The Art of Lying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You stay behind to talk to the Professor. Charlie has some questions about where you've been and what you've been talking about, you have to tell your first lie about your relationship with him.

Of course sir,” You stammer, barely managing to string the words into a coherent sentence.

There goes that wayward smirk again, obviously he finds some thrill in your flippant use of the term. That thought flushes you with warmth. You’re grateful that his attention is on those filing out of the classroom, the dawdlers who stay behind an extra minute to speak with him. He glances over his shoulder mid-conversation with one gangly looking boy. Somewhat awkwardly, you perch on the edge of the table, waiting for the boy to find satisfaction in Professor Winchester’s answer.

He does pretty soon after that thought crosses your mind. With a ‘thanks’ and a faint smile he trails out, presumably in search of the girl who accompanied him.

Professor Winchester clears his throat, “So Y/N, what made you decide to take this course?”

That w _asn’t_ what you were expecting. Momentarily it perplexes you, knocks you off the stride you didn’t even know you were on. You gaze upon him before answering; his eyes train similarly on you and an undecipherable look glazes in them.

“I guess I always wanted to be a writer,” You admit, “And language is what an editor can do kind of, but this course has writing modules so I thought it’d be good for me.”

You can feel blood gushing to your face; it all feels hot. God you hope you’re not sweating.

 “What kind of things do you write?” He smiles now, all saccharine sweet but with a faint tint of sultry. His eyes seem ravenous for your body, they can’t cease to admire and seek out. You prickle with heat as they fan over your breasts once more, his lip visibly catching between his teeth.

Taking a deep breath, you answer, “All kinds of things, I like to dabble. It’s hard to decide on one field when there are so many different ideas.”

“You ever thought about sending drafts to a publisher?”

You laugh, “No sir. They’re nowhere near good enough for that yet, if I’m going to send them something I want it to be the best that I can produce. I don’t think I’ve done that yet, I can always do better.”

“You think every author thinks that?”

You nod. His eyes seem to have a way of scanning you that feels as though you’re being pierced, the thin layers that conceal your innermost feelings from the outside wall seem to tear in the glare of those moss eyes. He gets a little closer; the space between you two feels like almost nothing. You look up at him.

“Would you let me read any of your work?” He asks, voice soft: he knows he’s probing, every writers craft is something they hold dear.

“I suppose I’ll have to, Professor, since you have to grade it.”

Mentally you curse yourself at how fucking cheesy you sound but it only makes him beam a little wider. He’s beautiful when he smiles, you remark, the coppery brown of his stubble is prominent beneath his lips. His lips look soft.

You’re so close that you can feel his warm breath on your forehead, within such a proximity that you bet he can smell the peppermint from your gum earlier.

“What made you want to teach?”

“My brother thought I was good at connecting to people, we moved around a lot when he was a kid and I helped him learn some of the basics,” He says, “And I didn’t think my writing was good enough.”

You have to laugh at the latter part, “Didn’t you say that that’s what all writers think?”

There’s a teasing element to your voice that makes him laugh too, a chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest.

“Some of my writing was based off mythology, there’s not so much of an audience for that nowadays,” He shrugs, “I was obsessed with that kind of thing when I was a kid, my dad encouraged it and it stuck.”

“I’d read it.”

The tension is palpable. In the silence of the room and the lack of interruption from the corridor; the bustling students have long disappeared for the day. He pauses. Your hand, trembling, meets his by his side. For a moment you watch your fingers hook around his, heart feeling like it swells in your chest as blood hums through you. You gather the courage to look up; he was waiting.

Neither of you dare to speak. The palpitations in your chest are so fast that they deafen you, they’re audible and loud and demanding. His head bows.

He almost freezes, as if expecting you to pull back. You stand your ground; it’s a fleeting moment where his palms are cool against your own clammy ones and his eyes behold you with admiration. You’re a hairs breadth away from a kiss.

 “Y/N, uh,” He breaks the silence, awkwardness overcoming him. He doesn’t step away though. In a way he’s still trapped in the moment with you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, “Should I go?”

“I don’t want you to,” The crinkles by his eyes scream his age; that’s probably one of his concerns. The age gap is a little more than negligible, you’re of perfectly legal age but you’re well aware that the university probably has a policy against him dating his pupils. You don’t want him to get in trouble.

Indulging for a second longer, you let your hand slip from his, “I’m sorry Professor.”

“Don’t be.”

It comes out breathy. You don’t even have time to slink back more than a millimeter before his arm wraps hesitantly around your waist. He seeks out consent in your eyes, freely you give it and you find his rigid chest pressed against your body, warmth radiating and settling in your bones. His lips skim your forehead.

On tiptoes, you elevate yourself; your hands clasp at the slight billow of his shirt to maintain your balance. His mouth curves, it seems to be a look of relief.

Then it’s against yours. Soft but firm, it’s all you can do not to collapse into his arms at the smooth feeling of his lips on your own. Your head spins, dizzy with infatuation and the unsteady flow of blood to your head. He takes like cherry. It’s probably the artificial kind but it’s a sweet enough taste, it adds to the sentimentality of the moment – if it was even right to use that word to describe what was going on. His tongue remains inside his mouth, he’s cautious.

Maybe this is his first time doing it with a student; it’s a futile hope but one that sticks nonetheless. Plump lips thin slightly, stretching into a smile due to the gained confidence that enables you to grip his hand once more.

Your head tilts, allow him better access to you; he nibbles tentatively on your lower lip and appreciatively muffles your quiet moan with the press of his mouth.

Rough pads of callused fingers circle your fist, gentle over the protruding knuckle bones. Your mind can’t help going places despite the fairly chaste nature of the kiss. There’s no indication that he’s trying for anything more, not that you might give it freely if he were to.

All too soon you’re pulling away.

Breathless, you inhale deeply, “I should, uhm. Well Charlie’s waiting outside so I should probably,” You trail off, no conclusive end to the sentence.

“You should probably, yeah,” There’s a degree of reluctance in his voice coupled with a bashful smile, “But I’ll see you around? The next lecture is on Thursday I think.”

His face seems to fall a little at the prospect of not seeing you until then. Three days _is_ a long time not to see somebody you just had your first kiss with. Adjusting your bag, you shrug, feigning nonchalance.

“I’m doing desk duty outside your office tomorrow night, actually.”

He adopts a hopeful look, “Really? You know, I always stay late to plan on a Tuesday, come to think of it. If you wanted to come in and see me, maybe.”

“I’ll think about it,” You wink, taking a reluctant side-step towards the door. You have no idea where the confidence came from. Perhaps, like his smile, it was some kind of infectious thing that could be contracted from being around him. Kissing him should certainly be enough. Sticking your hands in your pockets to hide their slight tremble, you retreat hastily towards the door.

“I’ll maybe see you tomorrow, Y/N,” He says, slightly anxious smile back again.

Fighting to keep an even voice, you tease, “You might just, Professor.”

***

Charlie texts you directions to her place, it’s barely a five minute walk from campus but God knows how long your interlude was with Professor Winchester. You hoped not too long. You might have just met but you knew there was no way she’d be letting that go.

She’d texted you about ten minutes ago, meaning hopefully you’d only been fifteen tops. It felt a lot longer thinking over it; was it possible for that much to have happened in a quarter of an hour? You pinned it on the fact that every romcom you’d ever watched had contained _at least_ half an hour of the protagonist wailing over their pathetic love life before they got to kiss the sweet talker with a perfectly chiselled jaw.

What would Jess think? You shudder at the mere thought, if she’d been teasing before she’d be relentless if you were to tell her. No, you won’t mention it.

You decide to text her out of courtesy anyway, “ _Hey, I made a friend called Charlie at class (a girl before you get any ideas) and I’m heading back to her place. I doubt you’ll see this until you and Cas are done fucking on every surface in the apartment but I’ll be there long enough to give you a chance to disinfect everywhere ;) have fun, be safe! The apartment isn’t baby proof x”_

You alert Charlie before you arrive, meaning she’s waiting in the doorway as you reach her apartment floor.

“So, what happened?” Those are the first words out of her mouth and they seem to bubble out of her, the excitable redhead is abuzz with joy at the prospect of gossip on you and the Professor. Naturally you lie. The art of lying is what spares embarrassment.

“He just wanted to know why I’d taken the course,” You say easily, “No big deal.”

She quirks her eyebrows, “You stayed behind with the guy you were checking out the whole lesson and _nothing_ happened?”

You nod your head. She bursts into a peel of giggles, moving from the doorway to allow you entrance; it’s with a flick of her hair over her shoulders and a genuine smile in your direction that she follows you into her apartment.

“Straight relationships, I’ve never understood them,” She smiles, heading towards the patchwork couch and patting the arm, “Sit down, we need takeout and a movie marathon if we’re going to last the night. Plus I have ice cream in the freezer, who needs to sleep with the hot Professor when there’s ice cream?” She giggles, “Five dollars on you banging by the end of the year though.”

“He’s my Professor, Charlie! We’re not going to end up banging!” Even as you say the words you can detect the sense of despair in how you say them. It was really Charlie’s fault for mentioning banging and ice cream in the same sentence; the thoughts that consumed your mind now were primarily about licking it off his chest. How divine might that be, the tense of his muscles beneath your tongue and the rugged moans from his mouth. You sigh internally.

“At least admit you’d consider banging him,” She grins, rising from her seat to leaf through her DVD’s. She gives you a choice: Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Harry Potter or Marvel.

“I think everybody in that class who likes guys would consider banging him.”

You select one and she nods approvingly, tossing an exasperated glance in your direction as she kneels down to put it in, “And you’re the only one in the class who he was giving sex eyes to the whole time.”

“I’m not sure you know what sex eyes look like Charlie.”

The teasing and joking only subsides when the first scene of the movie begins, ice cream in hand and takeout ordered with money lay on the side ready; Charlie is the kind of organised person that makes girls’ nights in both fun and slightly less hectic because you’re not running around looking for another five cent when you’re a little short.

Jess doesn’t text back until you’ve devoured most the ice cream and your takeway; your eyes are becoming bleary and Charlie’s fetched blankets. 

_“I promise we didn’t make any babies and Cas is on cleaning the flat now. You sure Charlie isn’t a pseudonym for Professor Winchester? ;)”_

You don’t even have the energy for a witty retort, the events of the day find a way to take their toll on you in the lethargy settled in your bones. Charlie’s head lolls on your shoulder. She’s the first to fall asleep with light filling the room. The action scene on the TV isn’t the last thing on your mind before you succumb to unconsciousness; it’s him: plump lips and nervous smiles are what sets your heart aflutter and follows you into your dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are enjoying this! Don't forget to comment and leave kudos; it really does mean a lot to me when you do :)


	3. The Art of (Almost) Seducing Your Professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have your first desk duty with Meg, an experience that you can't say you're in a hurry to repeat. It does come with a perk though, you get to see Professor Winchester and have a private encounter in his office.

Your head is still whirring from the kiss with Professor Winchester, over a day ago you might add, by the time you reach your desk duty. Despite the mounds of paperwork awaiting you on the desk and the prospect of answering phone calls, you couldn’t help but smile. Jess had known something was up from the brightness in your eyes. Of course you’d refuted the allegations that anything had happened.

In all honesty she’d been too exhausted from her activities with Cas to crank up the heat on you. She’d made you a hot drink though, bringing it to you while you pored over one of your textbooks. Somehow you managed to conceal your daydreams about him.

“Who are you?” An almost whimsical drawl comes from the brunette approaching. Her bag is slung over her shoulder and a smirk curves her lips.

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

She grins at the stutter in your voice. The palpitation of your heart in your chest gets your blood humming and your skin simmering with heat. She scans you with obvious interest, her intentions hidden behind a veil of concealed emotions.

“Right,” She nods, “Meg Masters. Don’t tell me, you’re one of these ones that wants to stay here the whole shift?”

You shake your head, assuming it to be the right response, “No. I mean as soon as it’s all done we could go? If that’s what you normally do, I mean, this is my first time here.”

“I know. Not hard to tell you’re a newbie.”

There’s a scorn in her tone that puts you on edge. Her walk borders on being a swagger, her strides are quick and she’s by your side in an instant. She takes the swivel chair, sighing as she relaxes on it. You hadn’t even noticed you’d tensed instinctively until she chuckles at your outward demeanour.

“Relax newbie, I don’t bite,” She does bare her teeth while saying it however, “So, you had a chance to meet the Professor yet? He’s the campus hottie, most newbies get crushes on him.”

You smile a little, “He’s my English Professor actually.”

“Oh yeah?” She practically sneers, “Don’t get all doe-y eyed over him. He’s got a habit of flirting with the first years, getting them on his good side. Don’t make the mistake of getting your hopes up.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Your voice quavers; was she telling the truth? Although she’d stated flirting rather than clarifying physical contact. You’d watched enough Friends to know that it was generally forbidden to be involved with your teachers, Professor Winchester couldn’t be stupid enough to lose his job to charm some girls. Still, it made your head dizzy and nausea bubble in your stomach.

She lets silence settle, broken only by the turning of papers as you flick through the paperwork. It’s a sea of waves and squiggles; it all blurs when your eyes sting with the threat of tears. Was he just trying to get you on side? Why would he?

“Hey girls,” The deep husk coaxes you out of your daze. He tries to keep it casual, an attempt at nonchalance but you look up to find his eyes remaining on you.

You smile warmly, “Hey sir.”

“Hey Professor, you don’t mind if I take off right? I’m sure Y/N can handle the rest of the work, there’s not too much at the start of term anyhow,” Her eyes fall back to her phone at the latter half of her speech.

He nods, “Don’t make a habit of this Miss Masters, it’s not fair to dump all the work on Y/N every week.”

***

It’s been about twenty minutes since Meg left and there’s only been one phone call. Professor Winchester had given you a long stare before venturing inside his room. Glancing at the silent phone, you make the decision to follow him; would he have given you such a meaningful glance if it hadn’t been his intention for you to join him?  

Rising to your feet, you straighten the papers into a reasonable order. Nervousness floods you in an overwhelming manner: your hands shake and your heart threatens to sink at the prospect of rejection. You’re overthinking it.

Still, you check both ways down the corridor to make sure nobody is coming before you head over to his door. Fist unsteady from the anxiety gushing and making your head feel like its spinning. You rap on the door, twice, feeling immediate guilt after the second one sounds far louder than you’d anticipated.

“Come in!” He seems to hesitate in answering, trailing off towards the end as though he hadn’t quite finished. He was about to add your name.

With a twist of the door handle, you almost fall into the room. Tension makes you unsteady. It’s not at all helped by the sight that awaits you: Professor Winchester is sat back in his chair, his eyes squint due to his focus on the screen and he looks absolutely fucking delicious donning tight dark blue jeans, a worn looking leather jacket accompanies it. From where you’re stood you can see the dip of the black v-neck underneath, it accents a tan slice of skin.

He’s the first to speak again, “Y/N. I was wondering when you’d get here,” He seems happy but somewhat bashful, you can’t be the only one whose nerves are sky high, “I got you a drink. I uh, I heard you talking to Charlie yesterday about what your favourite from the coffee shop was.”

All your worries seem to dissipate; they flow out of you like steam and float away from you. You feel calm.

“Thank you,” You beam widely, shutting the door behind you gently, “Are you busy with work sir? I can leave and come back later if you want me to?”

He shakes his head insistently, “Stay. If you’re not too busy.”

“I have the time.”

He only watches as you advance towards him. You can’t stop the slight sashay of your hips while you move, he’s unable to take his eyes off them and appears almost ashamed when he realises you’ve noticed him staring. You grin to soothe him. Making a point of holding eye contact for a second or two, you run your eyes over his chest and the slice of skin before mentally complimenting how the collar of his jacket looks like a beautiful contrast against his flesh.

“I like your jacket, sir.”

He drops his pen onto the desk, legs crossing over one another, “I like those jeans Y/N. They look good on you, they suit you.”

You can feel the thrum of blood settling beneath your cheeks. Settling in the chair opposite his desk you notice how small you feel, he’s not even trying but the heated blare of his eyes are enough to put you below him in your mind. It’s probably odd that you like it.

“Thank you. Can I ask you a question? Meg told me something earlier. I uh, I just wanted to check with you if that’s okay.”

“Shoot.”

There aren’t quite words for how uncomfortable you feel. Even rehearsing it in your head a million times didn’t make it any less awkward to voice aloud; the prospect of saying it loomed over you like a ton of bricks threatening to drop if you said the wrong thing. You’d kissed once, it was rather too early for a ‘where do you see us in six months?’ talk.

“Meg said that you had a habit of flirting with some of the younger students. Is that what’s going on with us?” You waver at the latter half of the question, barely able to maintain eye contact. Your cheeks are hot.

“No,” He answers, somewhat hurriedly, “No that’s not what’s going on Y/N. Meg has a habit of being a little harsh on people. I mean, it’s true, sometimes I’ve flirted a little inadvertently or sometimes even purposely in the past if people were being difficult and I thought I could win them over but no. I wouldn’t use it to lead anybody on,” He sounds almost disappointed that you’d assume that of him; it’s equal parts relieving and embarrassing that he has the answer to soothe you.

You smile haphazardly, “Okay. I’m sorry for asking, I just didn’t want to make this a bigger deal if that’s not what you wanted.”

“You think I’d risk my job if I didn’t think it was worth it?”

Part of you wants to point out that you don’t even know his first name but that’s smothered by a much stronger, more confident piece of you that chooses to answer, “No. But I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

He rises to his feet, a borderline goofy smile playing on his lips. It’s not like he was nervous around you before but something seems to have clicked in him; it could well be that he’s put at ease by your exclamation. You barely know him but you wouldn’t purposely set out to harm him. There was no blatant malice in your intentions and that seemed to suit him well.

“And I wouldn’t want to use my position as a figure of authority to make you think that you had

“You’re not, sir. I wanted to kiss you and I wanted to come here,” You blurt out.

That seems to appease him. With a cautious glance towards the door and a scanning one of your face, he steps closer. You’re happy to meet him. In a few brief steps your body is flush against his, the palpable tension of yesterday back tenfold. You’d have him right here and now, circumstances permitting and he seems to be thinking the exact same thing. A clear of his throat, a sweep of his tongue across his lips and he’s leaning down to embrace you again.

The crash of his mouth on yours comes with the stinging bristle from his stubble. In your haste to get him closer you find it to be entirely negligible, the feel of his mouth on yours is much more demanding than the itch of your chin.

“You taste like mint,” He mumbles into your mouth, fingers hooking under the waistband of your jeans, “Tastes good.”

Any reply you could have thought up is vanquished by the probe of his tongue. Its movements are svelte and well considered, you’re utterly absorbed by his touch and the nip of his teeth into your lower lip that drags both your lip and a moan from you. You’re so willing to allow the consumption of your being and permit his lips to leave his mark in their wake.

_You don’t even know his first name._ Yet you know much more; it’s been two days but you know a lot already: typically he tastes like cherry, he likes having your body right against his when you kiss and he’s fucking talented with that mouth.

“Sir,” You whine sweetly into the kiss, “Can we sit down somewhere?”

You appear to be able to play it off as not seeming like you’re so jelly-legged and your heart is so worn from all the excited palpitations that you can barely stand. The low mewl of disappointment as his mouth detaches from yours may well be enough to give it away though. With a solid amount of reluctance he releases you from him, gesturing to his desk.

“If I move the papers you can sit on there,” He suggests, acknowledging the cliché with a brief quirk of his lips.

“Sounds good Professor,” Your voice comes out hoarse and nothing’s even happened so far.  _So far._

With bated breath you watch him, chest heavy in anticipation of the whole thing. He clears it quickly. The papers remain in their filed order but he shifts them to the shelves, eyes flitting between you and them the whole time. A smile creeps onto his face. You almost squirm, it’s a highly unusual situation to find yourself in; you can’t help but wonder if he feels the same pull in his stomach as you feel in yours, you prickle with heat but his leather jacket is still on. You want to take it off.

“Sir?” You ask, waiting to make sure he’s looking at you before you continue, “Don’t you think it’s a little warm for that jacket?”

It’s a lame attempt at flirtation but one that he appreciates.

He chuckles, “That’s what I thought. Maybe you could take it off for me.”

You’re not even sure your squeak of ‘yes please’ is audible. Nevertheless he watches with restrained arousal as your hands slide down his shoulders and over the ridge of his biceps. The faded black leather is tight on his muscles, it stretches exponentially over his shoulder-blades, so much so that you’re surprised he even got it on in the first place. Tentatively, you let your hand fan back up to his face, thumb stroking at the line of stubble on his jaw.

“You like that Y/N?” He grins, your attempt at a brief indulgence proves futile because you freeze when you notice how attentively he’s observing you.

You swallow loudly, “Yes sir.”

Your nerves are ample, they fly and peak in your chest and even you can see the small tremor of your hand. His look was never hard but it seems to soften. His lips fall agape as if to reassure you once again that you’re not obliged to do anything you don’t want to. You shush his concerns. A brief press of your mouths, almost chaste in its sweet nature, has him convinced you’re okay again.

Fingers trailing over the material, you grab a fistful of the collar. It bunches beneath your fingertips; your mind runs avid with the thought of dominating him, pinning him against the wall by his collar. You have no such confidence. And this is far nicer.

Pulling it with care, it slips surprisingly easily from him. Washed out material gives way to expose the tan colour of his skin, practically the same hue as his face but not quite; that’s no wonder given that he always seems to have long sleeves on. You wish he didn’t. The tips of your fingers skirt over the muscles, revelling in how they tense beneath your fingertips.

“They’re so firm,” It almost comes out as a gasp, you can even fucking see the faint outline of his ab muscles through the t-shirt underneath.

He laughs a little breathlessly, “Whose fault is that?”

You sense his next move and you cinch your arms around his neck ready, finding yourself moving with him towards the desk. Clasped tight to him, you can feel all the rising tension that seeps through your every pore and envelopes you in a lust-fuelled haze. In his demeanour you see the same.

“Please sir,” You beg; you’re not entirely sure what it is you’re asking for but presumably it’s salvation of some sort.

He doesn’t deign to answer. It’s in a tangent of passion, not clemency, that you find his lips attached to yours. It feels like suffocating beautifully, trapped in a frenzy of desire that you may never hope to escape from. That’s okay with you.

The heat is stifling, the small room bursts into flames around you, set alight by the hurried ardour. Zealously his lips tangle with yours, hungrily he bites at your lower lip and you afford him the same treatment. He answers, finally, with a loud growl. His hands dig into your hips to hold you in place, the tight hold only mildly frustrating in that you can’t get your legs wrapped around his waist.

His lips on yours are enough – for now – the bruising hum of need is somewhat sated in the adventurous swirl of his tongue in your mouth. He’s everywhere all at once.

Your mouth is freed by his gasps for breath, you take advantage; it’s with kisses peppering over his neck that you receive gratification in the form of a choked moan. This is happening,  _really happening._ And you’re not entirely sure how to handle it. You’re lost in a daze of stolen kisses and torrid breathing.

The obnoxious ring of your phone sounds


	4. The Art of Actually Seducing Your Professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You decide to ignore your phone and spend a little time with Dean. But when you get home, Jess is waiting with some questions regarding your whereabouts.

His lips still on your neck, his body freezing instinctively at the trill that cries from your pocket and emanates the otherwise quiet room. You recognise it instantly; that’s your ringtone for Jess. Jesus does she pick the most convenient times to get in touch.

He pulls back, barely but it’s enough that you have to catch your lip to stop a disconcerted whine.

“Do you uh,” He clears his throat before continuing, “Do you want to answer that? I mean it might be important, you should probably get it.”

You swallow, “It’s nothing I can’t get back to later. Unless you want me to go?”

“No,” He blurts quickly, “Not if you don’t have to. I was a little worried it could be something important and I don’t want to keep you from it,” His smile is so bashful that you have to force yourself to remember that  _he’s_ supposed to be the adult here. The way that he looks up with you, those moss coloured eyes are almost entirely glassy with lust.

“Well I was having fun until we were rudely interrupted,” You laugh softly, reaching quickly in your pocket and turning it onto silent; once was coincidence but twice might be a sticky twist of fate that you didn’t want to consider right now.  

“You think that was fun? Sweetheart it can be  _so_ much better than that.”

The newfound confidence in his voice has you faltering, “I’m not sure what you mean Professor. You’ll have to demonstrate.”

With an enamoured growl his lips seek out your sweet spot, suckling in short little nips. Bursts of pleasure hum sweetly through you, the sting is noticeable but delightfully so and it only encourages you to roll your hips against his. The firm bulge of his pants presses against your centre if you angle yourself that way. Buzzes of electricity seek out your veins to nudge them in the right direction.

“Keep your top on,” He grunts into your ear, capturing your earlobe between his teeth and rewarding your patience with a sultry chuckle, “Just in case.”

There’s a disappointed tinge in his tone. You smirk against the flesh of his neck, mouth clamping insistently on his pulse point and drawing out his moans with alternating bites and suckles. His skin is damp with perspiration, the distinct taste of sweat coats your tongue; the faint salty taste makes you think of his dick and how fucking amazing that might taste.  There’s no time for that now, getting down on your knees is something you’ll have to save for later.

The burn of his stubble now teases at the dip in your shirt. His mouth presses quickly over the expanse of skin, hurried kisses fuelling the wanton need that spark your actions.

Gripping tightly at the cotton of the t-shirt you yank his mouth back to yours, not at all disappointed in the rushed movement of his tongue and how he times his actions with the tightening hold on your hips.

His fingers dig bruisingly. Evidence of your tryst will stain your hips as well as your neck.

“Please sir,” You beg softly; fucking, friction, fellatio, any of that would do right now. But the pulsation in your core demanded satisfaction, honest to God you might explode if he gave you that breathless smoulder again.

He dots a line of kisses along your collarbones, looking up at you with pure lust, “Tell me what you want Y/N.”

It comes out as a demand. Your back is more solidly wedged against the desk with his weight trapping you there. It’s the best kind of entrapment; the oak grounds you and the flush and heat of his body sends you soaring. He hasn’t even started yet. You grapple at the material, cinching him close to you before answering.

“You,” You whimper, trying to grind yourself against him but you don’t have the right vantage.

It’s futile and easily stilled by a shake of his head. His hands lie flat on your hips to hold you in place, “You sure you want me? Can’t have sex here Y/N, we can get pretty close though. If that’s what you want.”

“Please.”

That singular word is the only one you get a chance to say before his mouth crashes to yours once more. Overwhelmingly, his touch captures you in a bubble of euphoria. Hot and wet is the kiss, the persistent clash of tongues and teeth in an attempt to have one another as close as possible. Propping you against the desk, you find yourself in an advantageous position. Quickly you hook your legs around his waist, feeling his amused chuckle into your mouth and then hearing it swallowed up by a hearty moan when your hands skirt over the scope of his chest.

“Fuck Y/N,” He breathes out huskily against your neck, following it with a hasty bite at your neck.

You admonish him with a yank at his belt, encouraging the punishing rhythm that he quickly establishes. Messily and rather uncoordinatedly you find yourself soaring on a wave of pleasure, he’s mouth wateringly firm against your centre and the rock of his hips is fucking magnificent even through two layers of fabric.

Warm wet panties cling to your sex, sticky with arousal that increases beyond exponential means. You can’t even fucking breathe.

His body moulds so pliably to yours, his lips a hairs breadth from your neck and exhaling warm air that sets goose-bumps prickling along the line of your spine. It’s all so overwhelming: arousal pulsates from your sex and even your gripping palms are slick with the sweat. It beads on his forehead. The desk squeaks beneath the weight, the steady press and retreat gets your heart thumping and your core crying for release.

“Professor,” You mewl, “Sir, I need you.”

He rasps beautifully, “I got you. I got you.”

Litanies of stifled moans tumble wantonly, desperately. His thrusts are harder, the teasing slam of his clothed cock against your core hits all the right spots; it’s an absolute utopia that you find yourself suffocated by, the burn of the denim and the sweltering heat of the room adds to the gasoline can on the verge of exploding.

“Sir,” Your gasps of his name are infrequent, pressure thrums heavily inside of you and you swear your heart skips beats trying to keep up with the palpitations.

You can’t scratch up his back with his clothes on, you settle for leaving crescent moon indents in his arms with your vice-like hook on him, trying to find a way to ground yourself when the top begins to burst on the can. Your head thrown back, delight stinging and pulsing in his vicious final attack on your neck. With reverence, almost fucking religiously despite how contradictory that is, your name is crooned into your ear in his broken voice.  

His thighs confine you, purposely, pinning you in position and with one final rotation of his hips you find yourself bursting at the fucking seams.

Suffocated by the boiling liquid pleasure that seems to fill your lungs and nerve endings, every fibre and pore of your body swimming in the numbing liquid that turns your legs to jelly and your mind to mush. It’s fucking euphoric. You’re on absolute cloud nine; it does nothing for your coherency that his lips eat up your moans and cries in an effort to silence you, his own joining you in a melody of urgency before his hips still and he seizes you closer still.

By the time you regain your coherency the feeling in your core has succumbed to simmering desire rather than burning. His clasp on you is nought but affectionate. A lazy sated smile creeps onto his face when he notices you admiring his sexed-out look: spiky hair is tousled and tugged at, his neck flushes vermillion and tinges purple, even his eyes take on a glazed appearance.

You’re undoubtedly comfy despite the fact that you have a desk digging into your side and a Professor half lolling on top of you. You’re content.

“You’re amazing,” He praises, “That was about the hottest hook-up I’ve ever had.”

You beam lazily, “How many girls have you had in your office?” You ask it offhandedly enough that he feels comfortable in flashing you a cheeky grin before providing an answer.  

“One.”

“And who was that?” You quirk your eyebrows, waiting for the cheesy answer that you know is bound to come; your heart hums in your chest in anticipation.

“The girl whose phone is ringing again and who was supposed to have gotten out of here about twenty minutes ago,” He glances to the clock with a sigh, shifting himself carefully and rising to his feet, “I should probably get home too. If I’m late there’ll just be questions that I don’t really want to answer,” He chuckles gently.

You struggle to your feet, a hard enough task with a woozy head and gelatine legs but the wet patch on his jeans hardly helps matters. He moves uncomfortably, trying to tug the cotton down over it.

“You should probably put your jacket back on,” You suggest. You pick up your bag, pretending not to notice that he’s checking out your ass; you literally humped the fuck out of each other on his desk less than five minutes ago, did he ever relent? You hoped not.

He kisses your forehead quickly, “I might just have to. I’ll see you on Thursday, right?”

“You will,” You remark, fighting to keep any displeasure out of your voice, “Unless I have some excuse to stop by in the meantime. I’ll see you then, Professor.”

The click-clack of your shoes on the floor is the only sound to fill the quiet room. You glance over your shoulder to see him half-watching, half re-arranging the piles of books he’d moved but mostly his eyes are trained on you. That nervous smile is back again. It sort of makes you nervous too, squishing your confidence but also lifting it at the same time because you know he feels the same way. It’s odd.

You’re by the door when he speaks, voiced raised only just enough for you to hear him.

“It’s Dean.”

You really  _do_ almost collapse then. Dizzy with excitement is nothing to describe the happiness in your gut; it follows you out of the room and down the corridor. You’re in your own bubble, separate from the outside world and thinking only of him, of  _Dean_.

***

“Where the hell have you been?” Jess demands loudly, scrambling up from the couch so her scrutinising eyes can scan you more closely.

“I got caught up at desk duty.”

Unfortunately Jess can see right through your lie, she pierces you with a quick scorning gaze before folding her arms across her chest. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t  _need_ to because she knows full well that you’re going to end up spilling if she carries on staring at you like that.

Cas interjects, “Jess, perhaps it’s best to let Y/N tell you where she’s been in her own time.”

His arm slinks around her waist and she scowls at him for a moment; most likely she’s lamenting internally over the fact that she chose a boyfriend who was more of a diplomat than one to take her side. She relaxes into his arms almost instantly anyhow, her entire demeanour is softer around him and there’s no way she could withhold from his affections for long at all. You’ve never seen her do so anyway.

“You know you were worried too when she didn’t answer her phone,” She looks up at him, his own baby blues practically reflected back at him with hers.

“And now she’s home so you can ask her where she’s been in an inside voice,” He chuckles, looking back at you with curious eyes, “Out of interest, where were you? I bumped into Meg Masters and she said she’d left you by yourself there.”

You shake your head, “I was with a guy. It’s not a big deal, he’s from my English class but he came and offered to help me out with the work that was left,” You shoot your gaze to Jess, “And you can meet him when I’m ready. If he’s going to be important to me and I’m gonna let you brutalise him then at least let’s make sure that I like him enough first.”

She frowns for a second before giggling, “You make a good point. But you can at least tell me his name, I can’t hunt him down from that.”

“His name is Dean.”


	5. The Bustle of University Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're getting settled into your new job and trying to cope with the influx of work. Charlie insists upon a night out at the college bar, guess who turns up?

You don’t actually wind up seeing  _Dean_ at all over the two days; you’re rather flustered by the sudden influx of work that comes your way and you start your new job at the book shop just off campus. It was quaint enough, there were hardly customers flocking at the door. It was more Literature students, like yourself, who milled around and thumbed at the faded leather on the second-hand covers.

Dean. The name rolls of your tongue so easily and you can’t help but feel enamoured by it. Sure, it was his name and he must be surrounded by people in his home environment who used it flippantly.

But the formality of Professor Winchester, the uncertainty in those who called his attention in tentative voices was stark from your more confident call of  _Dean._ Not that you could ever call him that in front of the class, for obvious reasons. It made Dean feel all the more sacred. It’s weird to think you didn’t know it all along.

It’s your last shift on Wednesday evening and you’re seriously considering heading to see him once it ends; would he still be there?

“Y/N,” A vaguely familiar voice calls from behind you.

You whirl, slightly flustered; it was times like these when you swore some people had the power of mind reading. Blonde swims into view, the petite form of moody Jo stood before you. She doesn’t look so moody today.

“Yeah?” You answer, ejecting yourself from your thoughts about Jo’s personality change to actually focus on the fact she’s right in front of you.

She smiles, “You know that book Professor Winchester said we needed? Do you sell that here?”

You nod, “Over there. If you remembered your ID you can get a discount too, that lasts until the end of the week if you had any other books you needed to pick up.”

“Thanks,” With a wave of her hand she rounds the corner in the direction you’d gestured, hurriedly followed by Ruby who slinks behind her without tossing so much as a glance in your direction. That’s better than confrontation though. You’d probably been too quick to judge Jo, blind sighted by seeing her as competition or whatever it was that made rationalisation go so haywire sometimes. Probably hormones.  

Sneaking a peek and making sure nobody’s around, you decide to check your phone. Jess has been sending you texts all day; most of them have videos attached that are undoubtedly of her and Cas singing. You can tell by the thumbnails.

Charlie’s texted you too, asking what your plans are for this evening.  _Technically_ they’re nothing, you’d been thinking about catching up with some of your old friends from pre-university but that was skyping and you could do that any night. Maybe a girl’s night with Charlie was what you needed to stop yourself from showing up and seeing him. You didn’t want to look too needy.

_“No plans yet actually. What were you thinking? If it involves copious amount of alcohol then I might have to pass, I have a 6am start tomorrow.”_

_“Boo. Come on! It’s a bar that some of the Professors go to apparently and I have my eye on this brunette from languages. She’s got legs to die for. You might even get to see Professor Winchester there ;)”_

You articulate a quick reply, only realising at the last second that ‘Dean’ is slap bang where Professor Winchester should be. You’re mid-way through thanking the Heavens for the presence of mind to check when there’s a loud-ish clatter, coming directly from where Jo and Ruby headed off; what the hell was going on?

Clambering from behind the desk, you make quick strides to their corner. Shit you hope they hadn’t broken anything, there was no part of you that wanted to deal with a confrontation or have to make a call to your boss at this time of evening. No doubt she’d be pissed. It’s not that though. It seems the crash came from a stray book, not even from the shelf; Ruby’s hand still lingers by her side until Jo pulls it into her own.

They’re kissing. It’s not something you have a problem with, naturally, considering your newfound friend was a lesbian but still it takes you aback.

They haven’t even noticed you’re there. Jo clings to Ruby with such intensity; her blond locks flow over both of them and Ruby’s free hand grips tightly at them. Jo’s back is flat against the wall; her moans are mostly contained by Ruby’s mouth but elevated by the presence of her hand on her crotch.

Time to look away.

You scramble back to your desk, anxiety fluttering in the pit of your stomach; what the fuck were you supposed to do? You’d been trained to work a cash register, not deal with horny girls fucking in the back of the shop.

_“There are two girls here and I’m pretty sure they’re about to fuck, they didn’t see me but I saw them,”_ You send quickly to Charlie, glancing anxiously towards the door. There doesn’t appear to be anybody coming in, God knows how you’d deter them if there was. Busying yourself with tidying and shutting up shop for the night, you try to drown out the faint moans you can hear in the background.

A voice, Ruby’s by the sounds of it, hushes Jo and your stomach nearly churns. You have to head back into the store room.

After ten minutes of restacking the same books to keep yourself occupied –why was Charlie taking so damn long to reply? – You decide it’s probably safe to head out. Hopefully you’ve dodged the bullet where you have to deal with them, you actually cross your fingers in a childish plea before poking your head around the door.

It’s definitely quieter. You tidy the register: all the coins slot into their correct compartments and the notes are arranged neatly in order, recipts are folded and filed away just as they should be. If they could just hurry up and leave you could be out of here for the night. That was probably the most annoying part, the awkward part lay in that they’d done it in the first place but the most uncomfortable part was waiting for them to get the hell out.

Jo appears, clothes dishevelled as anything and hair ruffled so obviously that she can’t be expecting you  _not_ to notice.

“Sorry about that,” She apologises, flashing her teeth as she smiles, “Took a while to find the book.”

_I’ll bet._ You just return the expression, a kind smile stretching across your cheeks in turn, “No problem. Is this all you want?”

She nods. Ruby smirks, placing hers down on the counter and handing you the money. She doesn’t even attempt to be surreptitious about it, it must be Jo that wants to keep it a secret. Maybe that’s why they couldn’t go back to their place, they had another roommate. Very perceptive, Y/N. Sherlock would have been proud.

“Thanks for the privacy,” Ruby winks as she takes back the change, pocketing it and grabbing Jo’s hand, leading her out before the blond gets a chance to do anything other than widen her eyes in surprise.

You can keep a secret.

***

“So tell me about these girls,” Charlie says conversationally, pushing the next shot towards you, “Were they hot? Did you know them?”

You’d fallen foul of the redhead’s ways, she’d convinced you to come out after assuring you that she’d ply you with alcohol and make sure you got home before midnight, although that comment hadn’t gone without a Cinderella reference. She’d been true to her word thus far, this was the third round and you hadn’t had to buy a single one. Although truthfully this one was courtesy of man bun at the bar.

You roll your eyes, “I didn’t know them and I didn’t stay to watch, I don’t have that kind of voyeur thing,” You feel your face heat in the aftermath of what you just said and Charlie quirks a brow, “I don’t have a voyeur thing, shut up.”

“Whatever you say,” She giggles; three tequilas and she’s already tipsy enough to be flailing her hands for dramatic effect, “None of the Professors are here yet.”

“You know it’s against university policy to sleep with them right?”

She appears to consider it between mouthfuls of alcohol, “How do you know that? Were you researching whether or not you’re allowed to bump uglies with Professor Winchester?”

“ _No,”_ You answer, perhaps a little too harshly because she furrows her eyebrows in disbelief. She soon drops it though; she gets preoccupied in checking out one of the girls that walk past and she loses her train of thought.

The night descends into chitter chatter and the sting of alcohol in your throat after one too many whiskeys. You’re a little drunk, but it’s a pleasant feeling; it’s not the kind of binge drunk where you’re going to vomit in the toilet and have to phone in sick to work. It’s just enough to take the edge off the long day. It also helps to distract a little from the thoughts of Dean; although Charlie’s mention that he might be here did have you turning your head every time the tell-tale gust of wind from the opening of the door blasted your way.

There was no such luck yet; would it be classed as luck if he were to stroll in? Likely not, especially if he was wearing that leather jacket or one of his plaid shirts. Any clothes that hugged his form were too much.

Charlie snaps her fingers in an attempt to get your attention, “You think that girl is checking me out?”

Her voice is a little  _too_ loud. Said girl turns around, shooting what appears to be an interested look in Charlie’s direction but the redhead misses it completely, too caught up in the slight slur of her words and mumblings about whether she thought she was hot enough for her.

“I’d rate her like a solid 8,” She says. Thankfully her voice is quieter now, “You think I’m an 8?”

“You’re a 10 when you’re not hammered out of your mind,” You shake your head, “But good luck with a rough and tumble when you can’t even hold your glass straight.”

She murmurs some dissent. You pay no real mind to it, smiling to yourself in amusement while draining the dregs of your glass. The amber liquid tickles your tongue and tastes almost sour, you can’t recall what it was but it was some kind of whiskey; it’d been bought for you by yet another guy at the bar (this one wearing a charcoal grey beanie and sending hopeful looks your way.)

“I need to go to the bathroom, you think you can take care of yourself for five minutes?”

“I’m an adult, I know what I’m doing,” She objects, necking what’s left of her vodka and coke. She adopts a dumb smile and you don’t even have to look to know the girl is staring at her again.

You head straight for the bathroom, not allowing yourself a backwards glance because you know you’ll wind up stopping her from doing whatever idiotic thing she’s occupying herself with this time. Drunk Charlie is about as logical as drunk Y/N. Drunk Y/N has a habit of doing things that you have to fix in the morning.

Your legs are only slightly unsteady underneath you. Even then it’s more so that they’ve been tucked underneath you for the past hour or so rather than the effects of the alcohol; all that’d done was give you a rather enjoyable buzz.

The ladies room absolutely reeks of bleach. You go about your business, trying to distract yourself with thoughts other than those about  _why_ that stench was so pungent. You blamed the students. You were one yourself but it was the ones who weren’t 21 yet and insisted on drinking until they dropped that vomited on the grimy tiles of college bars. The hot water tap runs cold, a mild annoyance but what’s even more irritating is that the hand dryer is broken and the paper towels look decidedly dodgy.

You settle for wiping your hands on your jeans, consoling yourself with the knowledge that you have hand sanitiser waiting for you in your handbag.

Trying not to focus on the stickiness of the door handle, you yank it open. You hadn’t realised you’d missed the stench of sweat and beer until the fresh air of the bar overwhelms you. That  _is_ better. Slinking through the doorway, you notice it’s not just the smell that you missed. It’s Dean, Dean’s here.

***

Trying to play it cool as you make your way back to the table doesn’t go so well, your heart beats erratically and you can feel the warmth of your cheeks. Each time you intend to glance sideways, catching a glimpse of him in your peripheral, you have to remember to correct yourself. How awkward would it be to be caught staring? Not to mention embarrassing, particularly since he’s not alone.  

Charlie isn’t waiting for you at the table. She hangs off the aforementioned blond, her tongue seemingly buried down her throat. You roll your eyes; it was no surprise that Charlie was a fan of hook-ups but abandoning you on a night she’d invited you out on would be adequate hold for sufficient reparations, maybe in the form of buying the next takeout.

From your table you can’t help overhearing the conversation that Dean’s having with the guy he’s with, the tanned brunette, whose hair is much shaggier and longer than Dean’s, laughs loudly in agreement with whatever Dean’s saying.

“I’m heading out!” Charlie coos in your direction, a confident wink tossed your way before she evaporates into the clamour of people crowding the door.

You can’t resist texting,  _“Be safe, use protection! ;) xx”_

Plopping your phone on the table, the screen fades to black and awaits her response.  It is getting pretty crowded in here, it’s about 11pm and the nightlife from the campus is starting to crawl in, most of them still a little legless from last night. You’re occupying a two person table by yourself, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by several of the tipsy (and no doubt underage) girls at the bar who’re cradling their vodka and cokes like they’re their lifelines.

_‘I promise, Mom. ;-) xx’_

Her answer pings your phone and illuminates the screen, you shake your head and pick it up, trying to ignore the stickiness on the back that you’ll need to wipe later. You  _are_ like a Mom, you feel like a suburban one anyhow; weren’t they the ones that sat alone in collegebars trying to cling to their fading youth?

Your youth wasn’t even fading, yet it was barely 11 and you’re already ready to call it a night.

“Y/N!” Dean’s voice booms from the right. Feigned surprise tinges every part of the sentence, although only noticed by you because you full well know you saw him checking you out on your way back to the table.

“Professor Winchester,” You greet, your acting is about as good as his is; it’s apparently good enough to go undetected by his company.

“This is Sam,” He points to the man beside him, “Sam, this is Y/N. She’s one of my pupils, pretty much one of the brightest in the class. The girl that was with her was Charlie, they’re both incredible I have to say. I got pretty lucky with my classes this year.”

You try not to let your embarrassment filter through, “Hi Sam.”

Sam smiles brightly, returning the polite greeting and shaking your hand. You fall into light conversation that seems to flow without any uncomfortable pauses, for the most part. It briefly crosses your mind that this should seem unusual to Sam, he seems oddly at ease but you try to compress the nagging thought; you believed Dean when he said that he didn’t tend to get involved with students.

“You want another of those whiskeys Y/N?” Dean asks, “It’s my round apparently, you’re over 21 right? You’re allowed to drink.”

“Yes sir,” You chime. It occurs to you that you’re not even remotely sure how old he is, he doesn’t look all that much older than you though and you’re both consenting adults so you figure it probably doesn’t matter all that much.

He grins wickedly, “Sam gets plastered if he touches that stuff, see Sam. Y/N can handle it and she’s not a full grown 25 year old.”

“Shut up,” Sam rolls his eyes, “I’ll get another beer, I’m ordering a taxi after this round.”

Dean mumbles something akin to ‘misery guts’, filtrating through the crowd; it seems to part instantly in his wake as if they can all  _tell_ he’s from the university, it must be something about his walk that asserts his dominance. You rather like his dominance, come to think of it.

It turns out that Sam ends up staying for more than one round, you’re all still crowded around the table at midnight, huddling the precious dregs of alcohol that are left in their respective glasses. Technically it’s your turn to buy the next round but Sam shakes his head when you mention it. He rises to his feet, his legs practically fucking exponential; sure he looked tall when he was sat down but not quite that tall. The guy must be borderline 6ft 6 or something, at least.

He chuckles, “I should get going. You should too Dean, you know she’ll be pissed if you wind up stumbling in off your face at 2am.”

“I’m a grown man Sammy, I know how to handle my liquor,” His lips close around the top of the beer bottle, tongue running over the gap at the opening almost pornographically. He notices you watching and smirks, fighting to conceal it when Sam looks back at him.

“I’m calling a cab, you need one Y/N? It’s probably not the safest idea to walk home.”

Dean interjects, “I’ll take her.  Her flat can’t be too far from here or she can maybe ask one of her friends to meet her halfway.”

He adds the latter half to make the prospect sound less odd. Sam doesn’t even raise a brow; should that be concerning? Part of you thinks yes but the much larger part is a little ditzy from the alcohol and feels too much like you’re floating to really give a damn about what Sam thinks. Who even is Sam anyway? Maybe he’s another student, maybe that’s why he didn’t seem to bat an eyelid about you joining them.

“Well it was nice meeting you anyway Y/N,” Sam smiles, hitching his coat over his shoulders and smoothing it; he tries in earnest to avoid the looks he’s getting from women at the bar but a faint blush creeps onto his cheeks regardless.

“It was nice meeting you too.”

It was true, Sam was pleasant and conversation never seem stilted or as though it was small talk. Maybe it was the drink that got you loosened up or maybe it was the warm press of Dean against your side that reassured you. You rationalise that it was probably the latter.

Speaking of the latter, he gazes down at you with almost glazed eyes. For whatever reason he seems happy that the exchange with Sam has gone well.

“We should probably be getting going,” You sigh reluctantly, “I have to be in work for 7.”

He bristles closely against you as you stand up, his smile almost apologetic but cheerful enough to remind you that you did just get to spend an evening in public together. It almost filled you with dread that it was so casual, meaning he might do it with other students at some point so as to seem inconspicuous. You console yourself with the knowledge that it’s just you, those moss coloured eyes that scream lust and infatuation are solely on  _you._ Just like they have been all night.

“Do I get to walk you all the way home or would the roommate not approve?” He asks, “I mean I probably shouldn’t, it’s a little weird because of our professional relationship. Hell I probably shouldn’t even be walking you.”

“You don’t have to.”

He frowns, “I don’t have to but I want to. And it’s safer this way, it’s late and there are a lot of drunk guys milling around. I’d feel a lot safer if you were with me.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to respond that  _you_ feel safer with him around. You swallow it, the quota of alcohol required to turn you into a babbling dweeb hasn’t quite been met this evening, thankfully.

***

The lights in the living room are still on by the time you amble your way back, proof that Jess has in fact stayed up waiting for you. You probably have a litany of texts, all questioning your whereabouts. Hopefully Charlie had texted her, in fact she must have or you’d have received several anxious phone calls demanding that you get your ass back home before she came and dragged it there.

“This is me,” You giggle, cheesiness slipping through but in the dim light of the street you can see that he’s smiling.

Your hand is slightly clammy in his, you held hands most of the way home once you ducked out of visible lighting. He doesn’t speak; his eyes just behold you for a moment in the most mesmerising way that you can’t quite describe.

“I had fun tonight Y/N. And in case you were wondering, I do drink with students sometimes, it happens that we run in the same circles. But I don’t walk them home.”

His lips press quickly, chastely, to your own. You get the brief taste of sweet mint and the bitter sting of whiskey, your hands curling to a fist in his palms and feet elevating you to your tip toes so as to bring your bodies against one another. He’s warm and soft. His lips are slightly wet from licking them but not unpleasantly so, it’s more of a pleasant feeling. You feel glued together; all seems well in the universe if the content thudding of your heart has anything to do with it.

“You know how to make a girl feel special,” You tease, words coming out as hardly more than a whisper.

Humming against your lips, he tugs the lower one with his teeth as if to drag you closer. You feel a part of yourself melt, absorbed by the temperature of his body and the desperate sentimentality of the moment.

“I want you to feel special,” He groans. It’s coveted by the smooth of your lips, his singular guttural groan is engaged by the deeper entwining of your mouths and the slip of your tongues past one another. Innocent kisses don’t seem to be your bag, it’s almost astounding how quickly this has turned into a clash and you freely giving dominance that he affirms happily, making you weak at the knees.

“We probably shouldn’t have sex against a lamppost.”

His chuckle fans whisky breath over your cheeks as he pulls away, mouth slipping from yours almost teasingly. Technically you’re the one that interrupted it but it doesn’t make the snatch of the embrace any less illicit.

“Probably,” He agrees, “Probably not the best way to make a girl feel special, before a first date anyway.”

You smile, “You were planning to take me on a date?”

“You got any plans for Saturday?” He asks, hands light on your side and allowing for the press of your body into his. You slot together so well, your bodies almost seem moulded for each other whenever you come together.

“Nope.”

“Does that mean I can claim you as mine for the day?”

You laugh softly, face nuzzling to the crook of his neck to hide your embarrassment, “I think it does, Dean.”


	6. How Can the Theatre Go Wrong?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet Dean for your date but things don't exactly go to plan when somebody unexpected turns up.

It was only after heading through your front door that you realised you hadn’t exchanged numbers with him. You knew he couldn’t snatch you after class the next day because he was jammed into meetings, it was with smooth tact that he’d managed to get your number (and the number of everyone else in the class, for that matter.) He’d sort of ruined the surprise regarding the venue for your date but in a way you were pleased. At least it meant you could dress appropriately.

He’d broached the idea of attending some special film screening, saying it was on for a few weekends and it’d be educational. Of course, it was all a ploy in aid to get your number surreptitiously although he did try to emphasise its importance to the class. You found out, via text, that he was intending on taking you to the viewing this Saturday and organising for everybody else to go the next Saturday. He planned on ducking out of the class trip, feigning illness.

Your phone had been beeping practically non-stop; it certainly caused Jess to raise her eyebrows and question just who this Dean guy was and why the context was so frequent. You wound up lying, naturally.

Even inane questions felt important when it came down to him.

_“Vanilla or chocolate?”_

_“It depends.”_

_“On what?”_

_“On my mood. If it’s that time of the month then definitely chocolate, sometimes chocolate can be a little too sickly so vanilla is better.”_

_“I prefer chocolate.”_

_“Maybe you just like your things sweet, Professor ;)”_

Bad pick-up lines were your niche and he definitely didn’t mind you tossing them into conversation, he followed up with his own equally bad ones. Still, you had to admit that they had you in peals of laughter at wholly inappropriate times of the morning. Jess had come to notice this when your giggles reverberated around the apartment at midnight, earning an annoyed bang on the wall and the exclamation that she was trying to sleep. It was on the tip of your tongue to point out that the reason you’d woken up, the reason you’d texted Dean in fact, was because her wails for Cas to fuck her harder had awoken you. The irony.

You’d arranged to meet Dean at the theatre. It was too risky for him to collect you from the apartment; Cas was working today but Jess was lounging around and baking, of course she’d leap at the chance to nosy into a boy picking you up.  

Thankfully it’s a fairly warm day. You were expecting it to be colder, given the autumnal vibes you were getting from the buttery yellow and muted scarlet of fallen leaves. The scarf did complete the outfit though. You’re a couple of minutes early arriving; it’s with a thudding heart that you turn down the road towards the theatre, remembering that you haven’t spoken to him this morning so he might not even be there at all.

He is. Holding two drinks cups, he surveys anxiously. Did he really think you’d stand him up?

It’s obvious that he did, the relief that floods his features is honest to God endearing, his lips stretch to curve a wild smile; his dimples vaguely show and you can’t resist the temptation to kiss them as you greet him.

“You were worried I wouldn’t show?” You ask, reluctantly drawing back from him and taking the drinks cup that he offers to you.

“Maybe a little.”

He opens the door for you, gesturing for you to enter and tilting his head to the side a little as he does so. It’s pretty sweet, you’re sure you hear the words ‘ladies first’ slip from his lips and he waits for an old dear to amble her way into the building before he follows you in.

“I could never stand you up, Professor,” You ensure you whisper, only just loud enough for him to here, “How awkward would that be in class?”

You smirk and he chuckles, giving you a reprimanding pat on the ass. It’s soft. Still enough to give you a jolt and cause you to chew, albeit unconsciously, on your lower lip. He hands over the tickets to the man waiting by the entrance, nodding at the instructions given.

“Stop biting your lip,” He mumbles. His arm sneaks around your waist, sheltering you in the curve of his body as the crowd brushes past.

“Or what, Mr Grey?”

He quirks a brow, “All that literature you were telling me about and you didn’t think to mention 50 shades?”

“50 shades was a pile of crap. She babbled on about her inner goddess the whole time, it was an offence to writing. I wouldn’t call it literature. Besides, Grey was a shit Dom,” You look up, noting the intrigued look on his face, “Not that I’ve ever had a relationship like that but from some of the other stuff I’ve read, he seems to be the exact opposite of what he should be.”

Dean laughs, guiding you through the door into the theatre; you saw from the tickets that you have seats relatively close to the back.

“I didn’t know you were some kind of expert on erotica.”

You smile, it almost transpires as a smug sort of grin, “Not even after Tuesday night, sir?”

This time it’s him biting his lip. You lead the way, weaving to the back and settling into your fairly isolated seats. The film, like he’d mentioned, was a special screening with only two showings, it wasn’t even anticipated for it to be successful enough to go on at the big cinema. It was only on at this little theatre, meaning that your only companions seemed to be the elderly and hipster-esque stragglers who sit attentively in the front row.

You sneak your hand into his. It sparks a buzz, it’s like a weird kind of thrill. Your being together is taboo and the way you have to glance around before taking his hand is a not so subtle reminder of that. Right now it feels good though.

Talking quietly through the adverts, you get caught up in how animated he looks when he talks passionately. His eyes glow with delight as he talks through the concepts. He looks even more like an Adonis like this, so full of life and spark. You’re utterly lost in the conversation you’re having, looking up at the last second to notice Meg taking a seat in a row lower down.  _Fuck._

“Dean,” You hiss quietly, pointing, “We can’t be caught sitting together. Especially not by Meg.”

He curses under his breath, “We’ll have to sneak out. Shit, Y/N, I’m so sorry about this. I forgot Professor Milton was telling her class about the screening too.”

Nodding your understanding, you scramble to your feet. Clumsiness is a natural trait and the world isn’t on your side today; you almost fall completely into his lap. That’d be worse, the sexual tension coupled with the hurry to get out before the film starts.

Briskly, you walk on ahead of him. Meg doesn’t even look up from her phone; she’s clearly too engrossed in whatever conversation she’s having to pay any mind to her surroundings.

Dean follows after. He creeps past her row and down to the front, head bowed so as to avoid the attention of anybody else who might happen to be here. Your luck is limited, you decide, poking your head around the door into the corridor; Jo and Ruby, holding hands, happen to be here as well, accompanied by the gangly boy who stayed back to ask Dean a question on Monday. You still don’t know his name.

You grab onto his hand as he meets you, there’s no time for explanation; you yank him into the disabled toilet, conveniently located directly beside the room exit.

“What the hell?”

Twisting the door handle to lock it, you sigh with relief, turning to face him. Only to find that his face lingers mere inches from yours. Now you’re paying attention you can feel the weight of his body against your own, holding you up against the door.

“Jo, Ruby, some other kid, they were out in the corridor. We couldn’t exactly walk past them.”

He gulps, “I’m so sorry about this Y/N. I wasn’t thinking clearly, we should have gone to the screening the next town over. Do you want me to take you home? I mean, uh, I didn’t really have anything else planned and it’s not like we can go for coffee together or-”

Deciding you’ve had quite enough of the awkward babbling, you cut him off with a kiss. He chokes on whatever he was planning on following up with, chuckling happily into your mouth. You can sense the taste of his coffee on his tongue; it’s not quite bitter and has a faintly sugary taste, no doubt from the creamer he had in it. It’s distinctly pumpkin-like. Autumnal drinks must be a guilty pleasure of his.

“I think we should wait like ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” You breathe against his lips, opening your mouth to allow for the probe of his tongue.

He takes it as permission, consuming your mouth in the kiss; he sucks your tongue for a moment, only relenting when you groan with pleasure and tug at his t-shirt. Your senses are overwhelmed: the taste of him is strong yet subtle, it’s not overpowering but its strength is sufficient to be pervasive. His smell, musk and cologne is prevalent and soothing, it detracts from your hyper-awareness of the familiar bleach smell; bathrooms near colleges always seemed to smell this way.  

The door is cold and firm against your back, you’re sandwiched between starkly contrasted temperatures: the cool door and the toasty feel of his body. His grunts fall against your neck as his lips do, trailing and peppering warm air as further testament to the difference.

His eyes simmer with intent, you can see it long before he voices it, breathily.

“Can I?” His fingers freeze above the button of your jeans, eyes flitting up to ensure your full consent.

Giving it in a nod, you press your lips to his neck; you suckle at the skin – he must have spilled his drink on him because he tastes like freaking pumpkins – and your tongue flicks over the spot, the salt of his sweat and the spice of the drink lingering on your tongue as an interesting combination. You bite, more harshly, in efforts to draw out a moan; he’s far too well-contained for your liking.

He lets it rumble from his chest. His eyes narrow to reprimand, though they don’t remain on your face for long, he’s fascinated by how fucking soaked you are; it’s clear to him now he has your jeans halfway down your thighs.

“Can’t fuck you here,” He grumbles, “You want my mouth or my fingers baby girl?”

Your stomach does back-flips. Your hands curls to a fist, the restriction on your movement is entirely necessary if you’re going to keep some kind of control over yourself.

“Fingers,” You stammer, “Mouth later, please.”

He chuckles and it’s long and full, enrapturing and decidedly wicked. The thought of there being a later seems to appease his nerves, he lets his guard down somewhat and meets your eyes, this time clarity clouds his; he’s formulated his attack.

“You want there to be a later, baby? Where were you thinking?”

The way he talks asks for an answer that you struggle to give, his digits rake over your clothed sex and coat themselves in the arousal that soaks the material. The pressurising atmosphere is almost crushing, the gears in your stomach crunch and twist; there’s a severe lack of oil for proper cognitive function, all your attention has rushed south.  

“I-in the car,” You breathe against his neck; it’s the devious eyes that scan meticulously over you that have you on the verge of choking, “Want you to eat me out in your car.”

His mind takes a moment to process it. His body, however, is much more on the ball: his fingers delve beneath the confines of your panties and languidly stroke over your outer lips. You shudder, pinned by his body so that your knees can’t give way; you’d easily have sank to them by now.  He absentmindedly paws at your entrance, a finger crooking so you’re parted and feel the cold air, walls trying to tighten on nothing.

“I bet you want my cock in your mouth too, don’t you Y/N?” He croons against your ear, coherency somewhat regained, “Could suck my cock in the backseat of the car, or would you like the front better? I bet you would, would it make you feel like a dirty girl, Y/N?”

Crying out in response, he rewards your verbal plea with the attention of his fingers. His thumb sneaks in to lessen the pain of the stretch; he’s talented in actions as well as words, he finds your clit within an instant and applies ample pressure to the ball of nerves, enough to get you to keen your hips in surprise.

“That’s it baby,” He husks against the shell of your ear. You’re aware of other things going on: the smell, the taste, the sight and the sound. They all give way, submitting to touch and the way it makes your stomach flutter and its coil weave itself into knots.

Through lidded eyes, you can still imagine what he looks like about now. He must be wearing that satisfied grin. You decide to knock him off balance.

A rough bite on his neck. That’s all it takes for him to jerk, cussing profanities that are mostly smothered by the volume of his moan. He tries, to no avail, to swallow it. He embarks on a revenge mission instead. Sucking insistently at your pulse point and in a line along your neck, his fingers crook and twist, stretching you out and curving inside of you to the point where you have to fight the urge to thrash beneath his touch.

It’s a violent build-up, the bite and suck of his mouth, the heat of stifled moans burns through your chest and is mirrored in your stomach with the churn of desire and want. Wanton hope for release permeates the room. You open your eyes and you can see it gazing back at you in his, his own are fully absorbed by the darkness of lust.

Deciding you can take no more of the brutal lip biting, you unfurl your hands from their stance in fists pressed against his chest.

You wrench him close, mouths on each other once more; hot and heavy and sweet are the kisses that unfold, scrutinising eyes observe your every move. He waits.

Your sex swallows his fingers once more, a last nudge against your sweet spot and the circle of his thumb sparks fluttering inside of you; your whole being is snatched by delectable waves of euphoria that dance in every blood molecule, your heart palpitates and pumps it faster in an apparently never-ending cycle of pleasure that fluctuates your temperate. The elevation of your heart rate would be audible if it weren’t for the strangled moans you hush against his lips, into his mouth even.

And oh  _fuck,_ if you don’t think yourself honoured to be cuming under his glazed gaze, his eyes fall shut when he delves into the kiss for more but you know what’s hidden behind those pupils.

Freckles and dirty blond hair are all that cloud your thoughts, eyes shutting and squeezing tighter to try to deal with the amount of joy circumventing your system. Without permission from you, your walls clench around him and draw out every last ounce of gratification they have to offer.

His body anchors you through your overstimulation, it’s with his help that the other senses start to filtrate back. Gradually but they come. Taste is first to be re-recognised; pumpkin spice and creamer are the bittersweet tastes that clog your mouth and help you to regain some focus. With a bated breath you force your eyes open, not expecting to find his face contorted. Touch seems to have faded somewhat, it’s sunk lower in the hierarchy; it’s proved by the fact that you only let out a quiet sound of distress when his fingers slip from you.

Sound is next. His insistent grunts set your head woozy again. Smell is last, although you’re not quite sure how, the stench of sweat and sex suffuses the room.

“Cum for me Dean,” You instruct; it’s indeed more of a plea than an instruction. Your arms wrap around his neck, supporting his body as he supported yours and trying to ignore the renewed desire that couples with his thrusts against your thigh. If only he was fucking  _you._

Later, you tell yourself, focusing only on the way that his breath comes out in infrequent rasps and how he adopts an unmistakably desperate look. He keens against your body.

“You’re so hot baby,” He moans heavily, “Got no idea how good you look when you cum for me. Fuck. Want you to do that all the time, you look so fucking beautiful, you have no idea. You’re so tight,” He gasps, “Made me want to be inside of you, bet you’d feel so tight around my cock, wouldn’t you Y/N?”

“I would,” You whine against the shell of his ear, “I want your cock so badly Dean, you’d be so good, got such a good cock sir, I want to suck it, please.”

Reluctantly he shakes his head, drawing in quick breaths before he stills for a moment against your thigh. He’s close as hell, he wouldn’t even last you getting him out of his pants; if you touched him he’d blow his load.

“At least let me help,” You plead with a pout, the underneath of your skin seems to itch and hunger to be allowed to touch him bubbles under your skin.

He doesn’t answer. But he has no issue with you switching the positions, pressing him against the door; he doesn’t even flinch. He’s perfectly still, eyes searing into you but he nods his consent when you pause.

Your fingers are nimble and quick, you don’t bother pulling his jeans down at all: unbuttoning them gives you enough access to his boxers, the boxers that are stained and soaked with pre-cum in so many different spots that you can’t even count. Pre-cum stains his tip; his tip is red and begging for some kind of contact, he’s so hard that you bet he’d press right up against his stomach if you got to have him naked.

“Please,” He begs, voice hoarse and croaky from choking back all his moans, if your throat is anything to go by then his is fucking raw.

You drag your thumb over his head, collecting the pre-cum that beads on the ends; you use it as lubricant, making the best of the situation. It slickens your palms and his cock, you do genuinely have to fight the urge to engulf him in the heat of your mouth. That can wait, you can treat yourself later.

“I got you.”

Fingers curving into a fist around him, you jack him hurriedly. Curving your thumb over the tip to swipe off the pre-cum, you take divine gratification in the urgent buck and stutter of his hips into your hand; he twitches in your palm and you can tell how close he is. He breathes against your neck. It’s fucking sweltering.

You align your mouth with his, bringing him down for a kiss that’s not svelte or graceful in nature, in any sense. It’s warm and heavy and your hand curls around him, pumping in time with the beat of your heart; it’s once against elevated and fed adrenaline by the desirous groans and guttural grunts that spill, just as he does, over your palm. With a falter of his hips, with a flick of your wrist and a rub of his head with your thumb, he’s cuming hard.

Litanies of profanities and urgent calls of your name tumble from his lips, chapped and adorned with a speck of blood from how hard he’s bitten them.

You soothe him with kisses peppered all over his face; the rigid body is somehow weak in your hands and he needs your support to stay upright. His cock swells, his full load emptied onto your palm; it’s sticky and wet and frankly it’s probably disgusting that your primary instinct is to lick it off your palm.

So you do. Maintaining eye contact, you drag your tongue lazily over it; it prickles on your tongue, sour and salty but it’s worth it for the way he looks at you.

“How the fuck did you get to be so hot?” He curses, post orgasm bliss settling comfortably in his bones. It doesn’t come without lethargy. Though the way you just licked his cum off your palm? That certainly helped stir something within him that’s dying for more.

You giggle, “Like Gaga said, I was born this way.”

He has to laugh at the reference, it’s one that Cas probably wouldn’t have gotten since he’s about as educated in pop-culture as you are in 15th century dance. You wouldn’t be having sex with Cas though. You shudder a little at the thought. Adjusting your jeans, you shimmy into them and look up to find that Dean has done the same, tucking himself back into his pants and checking his watch.

“We were in here 20 minutes.”

You raise your eyebrows, “That’s all? At least you know I can get a job done efficiently, sir.”

He wraps his arm around your waist, “It’s hot when you call me that. It’s hot when you call me Dean though too, it sounds wrong when you say it. I kinda like that, sort of reflects how this whole thing is kind of taboo.”

Now that sounds cheesy as hell. You make a joke about his texts coming to life, he hits back with a reprimanding glare and a promise to make you regret saying that later. You don’t doubt that you will. But, first, it’s decided that there’ll be hot drinks – the previous ones had been left inside – in the next town over, followed by a meal (that he insists he’s paying for) and an overnight stay at a hotel. That’s probably classier than fucking in his car.

It has more of an illicit feel to it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positive feedback so far! I'm currently in education and working so I don't get a lot of free time to work on this but I am aiming to upload twice a week! :)


	7. What Counts as a White Lie?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smut with Dean the morning after your first date and a summary of subsequent weeks following, leading up to your lunch with the girls (Charlie & Jess.) You've had to tell some lies to cover up your tracks, constituting the question: what counts as a white lie?

The noise blaring from your left is a mere disturbance to your sleep, not anything worthwhile; you endeavour to ignore it but after a minute or so of the song blasting obnoxiously you realise: that’s your phone.  _What time was it?_

You give your eyes no time to adjust, grabbing blindly for the phone and securing it in your palm. Jess was calling. Fuck. It was already 9:17 and you had to check out by 10. Dean, entirely undisturbed, lies pressed against your side snoring. It breaks your heart to push yourself away from the bed and stumble across the carpet to the cold tile of the bathroom, somehow you manage.

“Jess?” You hiss into the receiver as you answer, voice no more than a breathy hush.

“You didn’t come home from your date last night!” She exclaims, “I was so worried! You didn’t let me meet the guy so I had no idea of knowing whether you were getting laid or murdered.”

Rolling your eyes, you laugh under your breath, “Well thankfully it was the sex.”

“You know this means I have to meet him sometime soon, don’t you?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ambush the date,” The mirror facing you reminds you of your state: yeah, you’re not even dressed save his shirt over your upper body and your panties on your lower, “I have to go, we’re at a hotel and check outs in 40 minutes, and he’s not even up yet.”

She giggles, “Okay, I gotta wake Cas up anyway. Be safe!”

Hanging up, you choose to set an alarm for 9:40 because God knows how much difficulty you’re going to have in wrestling him out of bed. Your mouth stretches into a wide smile upon re-entering the bedroom; he clasps the pillow tightly in his arms, cupping it to his body the same way he was holding you a few minutes prior. The urge to get back into bed, slip beneath the duvet and into his arms, it’s overpowering. But God this was an expensive hotel, you already felt guilty that he’d splashed out for one night.

You clamber onto the bed, ensuring that you proceed with enough caution so as not to unsettle him. Snuggling against his body, you allow yourself to be lost in the sure embrace as he instinctively loosens his grip of the pillow to greet you. On he dozes.

He always seems too self-conscious to let you admire him when he’s awake, there’s little he can do about it when asleep: you let your eyes rake over and observe the vast expanse of freckles that collect heavily along the bridge of his nose and beneath the bags of his eyes, his eyelashes fan – long and smooth – against the tan of his cheeks. Those perfect model lips purse a little, even in his sleep, the dive of his chest and the sparsely plastered hair leads to the soft of his stomach. You peppered so many kisses over that last night.

There’s a scar on his right shoulder; it’s faded but still noticeable and you can’t help but frown and wonder how he got it. You’d have to ask at some point.

“Dean,” You murmur reluctantly, a little less than happy about having to disturb his peace.

He grunts. He must have been on the very precipice of consciousness already, judging by the way that his body curves towards you and his arms tighten around you in protest.

Gathering the ounce of remaining self-restraint, you shake him softly. This time he groans, hands coming to rest on either side of your waist and his crotch pressing against your thigh as he nuzzles you closer.

He’s  _hard._

You couldn’t quite understand how he’d regained his fighting strength overnight, he’d been well and truly sated when he flopped against the bed with you and agreed to let you watch what you wanted on Netflix; the good thing about the price of the hotel room was that it came with a big ass TV.

Still, you can use it to your advantage. Grazing your hands over his upper body, you have to remind yourself of the task at hand several times: you keep pausing to caress expanses of skin.

Despite his tries at concealing his awakened state, he gives it away with the eager keen of his hips. Your hand brushes over his boxers. And he fucking jerks, the bulge beneath the navy cotton cries out for your touch and eyes open like a shot. He grins, a little smugly, down at you.

“I knew you were awake,” You reprimand with the shake of your head, moving as if to pull your hand away when he clamps it down with his own.

He smiles, “Couldn’t resist letting you. Last night was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Ignoring the flush of your cheeks, you lean forward and allow the contact of your lips. The kiss is one of elegance; that’s much appreciated by your mouth since last night it was nipped the hell out of. It was the most incredible sex you’d ever had too, in all honesty, not that you’d had all that much experience of it but there’d been enough prior evidence to determine him the winner.

You find yourself flipping onto your back. His strong arms hold his weight as he hovers above you, glancing down with caring eyes.

“How long until we have to check out?”

“About 35 minutes.”

He considers it for a brief moment, “That’s enough time.”

You beg to differ but the hum of your body cries out for him; who are you to deny yourself the simple pleasure of his company? There’s little foreplay: his lips briefly skim your neck, cold fingers tease over your core, kisses – less sloppy than last night – are trailed down your body and along your hips. You reciprocate, naturally, dotting a line of slightly more hurried kisses along the pulse point of his neck; tongue tasting the tang of sweat and cologne that you’ll undoubtedly recognise as him, forever.

“Dean,” You urge, legs wrapped around his waist and fingers teasing through the mussed dirty blonde.

He just nods. Bringing your lips together again, the twang of morning breath is more immediately concerning than the slight sting as he pushes inside of you, though both quickly succumb. He feels so good inside of you, each thrust is clever and well-timed and it has you bucking back against him.

You thought you’d lost all your strength the night before, proven wholly wrong when his hand sneaks between you and lights a fire inside your stomach; his insistent encircle of your clit had you practically writhing beneath him.

“So fucking good,” He exhales against your neck, breathy grunts once again swallowed by the joining of your mouths.

There’s no tangle, no tussle, no clichéd fight for dominance. This was equal and gentle; it almost felt loving though you brushed that thought aside. You’d only just had your first date. His cock fits so snugly inside of you, the movement of his hands works in unison with the snap of his hips, the delve as deep as he could go before the inevitable retract. To distract from the emptiness of the retreating thrust he increases the pressure on your bundle of nerves, leaving you clenching tightly around him as he fills you up again.

“I’m close Dean,” You practically wail into his mouth, fingers clenching at the muscle of his skin. Little indents are left in their place when you settle for gripping at his biceps, drawing out a long groan as his hips stutter.

“Me too.”

Three more thrusts is all it takes for a coil to snap inside of you, fire working its way through each and every one of your veins; fiery passion is suddenly ignited in your kiss and it does become a battle for dominance – he wins. His thrusts are sloppier, faster but less accurate, that doesn’t matter though because you’re clenching and calling his name so reverently that you’ll be surprised if your temporary neighbours don’t know it by now.

“Y/N,” His voice is a choked plea. You cinch him closer, just, letting him go deeper as the sparks inside of you fizzle.

And suddenly they’re reignited. Warm and hot, he cums hard inside of you. A litany of pants, intertwined with groans and the insistent call of your name can’t quite be absorbed by your lips. You let them flow.

By the time you’ve regained any composure at all you’re sweaty and the alarm is going off in the bathroom to signify that it’s 20 minutes until check-out. Exhausted again, you let yourself slump into the comfort of his arms. God he’s comfy. You peek upwards, noting his closed eyes and the determined hand on your waist that assures you you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

“At least let me pay half for the late fee,” You mumble against his neck, half-tempted to brave the fatigue and head to the bathroom to quiet the shrill cry of your phone.

As if sensing your plan, he clasps you tighter to his side, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

3 hours is how late you are to check out. The secretary behind the desk seems highly unamused by the whole thing, she remains tight lipped and doesn’t act in the least bit cordial while Dean uses his credit card to cover the cost. You’d only have been about two hours late if it wasn’t for Dean’s insistence upon having a shower; you hadn’t had sex in there, just a fight with the free shampoo that’d led to peals of laughter and you almost slipping to your death. Just normal activities for post first date.

You don’t get to pay any towards it after all. Once you’re outside you flip a coin and it lands – as Dean called it – heads up. He crushes you against his side and ignores all the pouting and tongue pulling, simply kissing you on the forehead and leading you through the car park to the car.  

* * *

It’s the week of Halloween, about six weeks after your first date with Dean. Of course, you’d been making up lies ever since then – it felt like all you did lately was lie. The biggest ones were to your closest friends. It was kind of a side effect of telling them you were dating somebody; it would be harder to lie about the nights you stayed over at hotels and where you snuck off to in your free time.

So you’d concocted a lie. Kevin Tran was a Computer Tech major. You knew him from your last school, you’d been friends and continued to be. That was where it’d all started.

His new buddies were pressuring him into going out and finding a girl and you found yourself stuck in a rough spot that involved a faux boyfriend. It was mutually beneficial, really, though more so for you. It meant you could introduce Kevin as your boyfriend. They’d all warmed to him, Jess and Cas having known him previously and Charlie immediately connecting over a mutual love and skill with technology.

It put a bit of a strain on your relationship with Dean but things were stronger than ever, after a couple of spats that bordered on arguments you’d begun officially dating and promised not to let things like this come between you.

That Wednesday afternoon was a girl’s lunch: i.e. no partners invited.

“So what are you doing for Halloween?” Jess asks, “I didn’t know whether you were planning on seeing Kevin or whether you wanted to go on a double date with me and Cas.”

Charlie pipes up, “I know someone who’s having a party. Lots of booze, lots of hot guys and chicks. Not that that’s useful to either of you, you’re both tied down and boring,” She rolls her eyes with a teasing laugh, sipping some of her coffee and letting the froth collect around her lips.

You stifle a laugh, “So you and Cas will be out all night?”

“Uh huh,” Jess nods, “You and Kevin can have the place all to yourself.”

She wiggles her eyebrows comically. You try to keep a straight face, failing entirely when she lean’s in closer to you.

“Okay, I get it Jess, we can get it on,” Smiling, you take a sip of the seasonal drink: Dean had gotten you rather hooked on something that you were a little ambivalent towards before. And he insisted on plying you with them.

The place all to yourself with Dean sounded good. It certainly beat the idea of going to a hotel and watching horrors on Netflix, if you could stay at home to do that you could save money. You could actually have sex in your own bed for the first time. God that bed begged to be broken in, you swore of it. Cas and Jess always lingered in the apartment, giving you no opportunity to invite Dean over. Now that the chance had arisen there was absolutely no chance you were letting it slip away.

“So you and Kevin are spending Halloween alone?” Jess almost pouts, exchanging a mock exasperated glance with Charlie.

Charlie shrugs, “Couples.”

Your phone buzzes in your hand. Surreptitiously, you manage to check it: 1 message from Prof W. Yeah, that’s how he had to be saved in your phone in case anybody snooped in your contacts; one could say it was a pre-caution too far but you begged to differ.

_“I miss you. I can’t wait for Saturday, did you find the hotel you wanted to go to yet?xx”_

Conspicuously, you reply, “Actually, I had a better idea. Jess and Cas are out for the night at some party, you could come over. Halloween spirit and all, I’ll dress up, we’ll carve pumpkins, I can even make homemade pumpkin pie for while we watch the movies. Xx”

“Is that Kevin?” Charlie inquires, leaning over in an attempt to see your phone screen, thankfully you shut it off just in time

You nod, “I just told him he could come over for Halloween.”

The topic manages to steer clear of boyfriends for a while, meandering into a territory that essentially just purely involved complaints about work and who had the worst job. Jess could never hope to compete in that one, she’d been working in a bakery. It was Charlie who won in the end, working for Dick Roman was a job that could never be made up for in salary alone. You supposed the only problem with your work was your temperamental boss and the fact people liked to hook up in the back – it seemed it had a reputation, Ruby and Jo weren’t the only ones.

“So Professor Winchester’s away for a few days I heard,” Jess says conversationally, “Did he say where he was going?”

“Work conference,” You blurt; it comes out more hurried than intended and you receive quirked brows and amused glances from both of them. Charlie has her own opinion on the matter however, choosing to interject.

“I bet he’s on a romantic getaway.”

“What makes you think that?” You raise your eyebrows, trying to act perfectly casually but entirely failing. They pay no mind.

She leans in closer, “Just something I heard. Apparently he used to hook up with Professor Braeden and they’re both gone at the same time. Plus, Professor Milton teaches the same course and she’s not gone to the work conference. Makes more sense that they’re banging.”

She sits back in her chair as though she just uncovered the Holy Grail. You feel sick.

“Why would they let him miss time off for that?”

“I doubt they would,” Jess decides to contribute, “It’s probably just a coincidence. Unless they’re just banging at the hotel they’re staying at.”

You can mask the simmering anxiety in the pit of your stomach, just long enough for them to fall back into conversation. You want to go. That couldn’t be true, of course it wasn’t because you and Dean were dating and this was his work conference; why the hell would he lie to you? He’d sent you a picture of him in his identification badge, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t go that extreme for a ruse. And he’d facetimed you from the bathroom after he’d had his shower before bed.

Pushing it to the back of your mind, you force yourself back into the conversation: the topic has changed to who they think is hooking up in their classes. You’re grateful for the distraction.

Deep in your pocket, your phone sounds.

_‘Sounds perfect baby. I wish I was home. Xx’_


	8. Pumpkins and Maid Outfits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean comes over for Halloween, you have a maids outfit, things get smutty with a pie that you made for him.

It’s with bubbling anxiety that you await his call. You’d texted him, explaining what you’d overheard and asking for an explanation; he said he’d call at 4 because he was about to go into a meeting but it’s 4:02 now and your nerves are peaking by the second.

It rings once. You scramble to answer it, fingers quivering with anxiety and clammy with nervous sweat that swipes across the phone screen in your urge to take the call.

“Y/N,” Dean greets, “Sorry, I had to get back to the room before I called and-”

“Is it true? Are you sleeping with Professor Braeden?”

There’s a pause just long enough for an angst-laden beat of your heart before he speaks again.

“No. I’m with you, why would I be doing that? Who even mentioned Professor Braeden to you anyway?”

He sounds almost frustrated, as though the mere mention of her is irking to him. Should that be a cause for concern? You can’t even focus on all the thoughts, your mind jumps and skips like a scratched record.

“A friend mentioned her. What’s she doing at the same place as you anyway? Apparently she’s like languages or something so why would she be there?”

He sighs, “She’s not. Y/N, I uh, maybe I wasn’t completely honest when I talked to you about my past relationships. I can explain if you want me to but can you uh, promise me you won’t freak out when I tell you? It’s over, it’s all over and we don’t even talk anymore, it got too awkward and complicated.”

“I’ll listen.”

“Her name is Lisa,” He clears his throat, “Lisa and I…we go back, we go back a long way. We were together, on and off, for a couple of years. She had a kid, Ben, said he was mine and tried to get me to pay child support but my lawyer suggested I got a DNA test done. Long story short, he wasn’t my kid. It was all messy, messy as hell and fucked up. I missed Ben and he missed me but Lisa was his mom and the fact he wasn’t mine biologically meant that, well, she could do whatever the hell she wanted.”

“And now what? You just work at the same university and don’t see each other anymore?”

“Not exactly.”

Your hands are shaking, barely holding up the phone and your stomach grumbles distinctly with what could either be nausea or hunger. You’d yet to eat today.

He takes your silence as his leave to continue, “Sometimes we have to see each other, official stuff. But we keep it professional. We don’t see each other most of the time because she’s not that great at letting things go, she’s asked me to come back a couple times.”

“But she’s not with you now? You promise?”

“I promise. She and some of the others are at a conference, but it’s not here. I swear, I’m here by myself and I’d never do that to you even if she did happen to be here.”

“I know,” You breathe a quiet sigh of relief, “Sorry about that. I just freaked a little.”

“Don’t worry about it,” He smiles, “How are things going with Jess? She’s not still asking questions about Kevin is she?”

You lay back on the couch, hugging the cushion tightly to your chest, “Thankfully not. She kind of abandoned that after I told her that not all couples are as public with affection as her and Cas. We’re good for now.”

It turns out that you and Dean have a lot to catch up on, despite him barely having him been gone so far. You talk for over two hours, Dean assures you that his contract comes with a ton of minutes so it’s nothing to worry about – you’re grateful to get to talk to him. There are periods spanning minutes long that are filled with a comfortable silence, just enjoying one another’s virtual company. You’ve never felt more fulfilled.

* * *

It’s barely even noon when Jess pokes her head around the door, you’re halfway done tugging your jeans up your thigh when she pops her head around.

“You’re not wearing a costume?” She asks, raising her eyebrows a little, “Thought you might have got yourself a little something for Kevin.”

You scoff, “Maybe I have. But he’s not over until 3 and I don’t much like the idea of hobbling around in my little maids outfit until then,” You look down as you say it, much too ashamed to meet her eyes but secretly thrilled at the idea of showing it off to Dean. It’d been inspired by him saying his place was so messy that it could use a maid.

“Maids outfit? I thought you’d be more of a nurse kind of girl.”

Shrugging, you pull your jeans the rest of the way up, “I thought about it. I know you got yourself a nice outfit for Cas, I heard you trying it on last night.”

She blushes, “Yeah well you have the place to yourself so, the only place off limits is our bedroom.”

Laughing, you shake your head as she ducks out of the room again. Like you hadn’t planned on making full use of the vacant place anyway. Your mind wandered as you considered the possibilities: the counter, the sofa, the bath. Last weekend you’d gotten a little freaky in the bath with Dean and it could happily be checked off as one of the best experiences of your life thus far.

Dean texts a few times while you’re putting the finishing touches to the decorations; it takes a step ladder for you to get the paper pumpkins to hang from the ceiling. They look damn good though.

Next, it’s getting out the carving knives and the pumpkins so that you two can actually do that; you’d discussed it and it turned out that Dean actually never had. You’d decided to change that, in spite of the fact that it was messy and you weren’t all that good at it anyway. You set a cloth down to catch all of the pieces, knowing that Jess might have a few scruples if she came home tomorrow to find pumpkin in the rug.

There was also the matter of the apple pie in the oven; it’d long been established that pie was Dean’s dessert of choice and you’d gone to the effort of making it for him. He’d better like it.

Decorations, check. Apple pie baking, check. There was only one thing left on your to-do list: change into costume. You were considering doing that after the pumpkin carving and the pie, it’d get wildly out of hand otherwise. Knowing you and Dean you might never actually get to anything else.

It’s exactly 2:00pm when he knocks on the door, a hard rap followed by a softer one.

Rushing to the door, you pull it open quickly to find him waiting: white shirt, dark blue jeans, his typical attire but the scruff that covers his chin is different.

He steps in before embracing you, making sure the door is closed behind him before his lips are gentle and sweetly urgent on your own; the tug of his lips against yours is chaste but desperate, he yearns for the taste of you and you’re more than happy to comply.

“Missed you,” He grins as you pull away, both a little woozy.

You return the smile, adorning his chin with smaller kisses, “Missed you more. You hungry? I made pie and everything, thought we could carve our own pumpkins and then I could get into my outfit for you.”

His eyes go wide, “You got a costume?”

“Uh huh. Shouldn’t have mentioned that before the carving, should I?”

He shakes his head. The carving  _could_  wait until later. It’d been nearly a week since you’d gotten to nestle yourself in the comfort of his arms. The new facial hair was certainly something you were interested in trying out.

“The pie’s in the oven cooling down, why don’t you get that and I’ll get my outfit on?”

“Sounds like a plan sweetheart,” He says; you can hear the smirk in his voice even though you can’t see it with your back to him.

The costume is tight to say the least. It fits, perfectly, but it’s tight and for a moment you consider not going out there. But Dean is waiting. You rake your eyes over your form once more, scrutinising yourself and swallowing your slight distaste.  It does look somewhat sexy and Dean is going to like it. That’s what you reassure yourself with before stepping back into the living room.

He almost drops his fucking pie. His hand pauses halfway to his mouth, the fork quavering in mid-air, “Shit Y/N. You were planning on making me wait for that?”

His eyes are bright. His jaw is clenched, the lust blown gaze lingering over your thighs before trailing upwards to your face; the tray plops onto the coffee table and in an instant he’s risen to his feet, taking a calculated step towards you.

“Have you got something I could help you with, sir?” You decide to play into it, you’re holding a fucking fake feather duster after all, it’s the least embarrassing thing you can do.

He clears his throat, “I got some crumbs from the pie on the floor.”

“I’ll clean those up for you, sir.”

With a wink, you bend your legs and sink to your knees directly in front of him. You hear the hitch of his breath. Leaning over, you pick the crumbs from the carpet and collect them into the palm of your hand, pretending not to feel the scorch of his gaze on your ass. It doesn’t take long to pick them up but you make a meal of it: wiggling your ass just a little as you move, you know full well that your panties are on show to him.

“You think you got them yet, sweetheart? Cause I think you do.”

“Is there something else you’d prefer me to be doing?” You look up at him with imitated innocence, going so far as to raise your eyebrows a little.

He bites his lip, “Why don’t you come and sit on the couch? Make sure I don’t get any crumbs down me.”

There’s a charged thrill in the pit of your stomach that gets you nodding your head, your body speaks for you and you’re thankful because your mind is incapacitated at this moment in time. There’s a long pause when you stand up; you become aware of your own heartbeat and it takes Dean’s hand enclosing yours for you to regain your composure.

Perching on his thigh, you can feel the warm flush of his body – it’s a whole new level of intense.

You can hear the thud of your heart, taste the metallic tinge of your blood from the bite of your lip and you can feel heat ripple through your core and turn your stomach to mush. Your liquidised insides threaten to boil when his hand makes its way up to the apex of your thigh, thumb slowly dragging across the flesh and sending goose-bumps prickling down your spine and heat gushing to your core.

“How ‘bout you let me eat the pie off you? That way I can lick up any crumbs.”

Nodding quickly, your heart barely gets the chance to palpitate before you find yourself strewn across the sofa: spine pressed against the back of it and legs splayed with him in between.

“You ready sweetheart?”

“Please sir,” You whine, bucking your hips only for the weight of his hand to still them with a smirk.

He places a slice on your right thigh, adding a squirt of whipped cream. The cool against your skin is refreshing, even if the feel is sticky. He considers you for a moment: your panties are obscenely damp, your hands squeeze into fists before relaxing again, your eyes flutter downwards and beg for a reprieve.

With a steeled expression, the tip of his tongue licks a line over your thigh. Squirming, you force yourself to swallow the moan that fizzes in your throat and instead gasp in a breath to prepare.

The preparation is inadequate. He moans, luxuriously, gratifying himself with the sweet scent of arousal that’s tinged with mango from your shower earlier. Rasping against your inner thigh, he drags his mouth over the whipped cream; it tickles like fuck and you have to brace yourself to keep still, he laps at the skin and spreads the white across his lips. Your nails dig viciously into the material of the couch.

“Mmm,” He huffs against your skin, breathy and ravenous, “I bet you taste so good baby girl. Don’t you? Smell so good.”

His tongue follows the trail of crumbs, suckling and nipping in a way that has you clawing and fighting to ground yourself. Soaked, desperate, fucking horny and he has no intentions of doing anything about it right now – the satisfied quirk of his eyebrow is proof.  

“Sir, please, just…” You trail off, choked by a throaty moan when he bites down harshly on your thigh.

“M’gettin’ there. Gotta make sure you’re ready,” He chuckles – it’s raspy and his accent is thick, fuck his accent has never sounded more delicious but the way it flows right now? That’s a sound that gets your stomach writhing and doing impatient flips.

You’re ready alright. He leaves a litany of hot moans against the skin as he works the way up: licking, biting and suckling at the crumbs to make sure there are none left. He pops his lips in satisfaction. He sucks in a long breath, trailing a final batch of sloppy kisses up to your sex. Then he stops.

“Gonna eat you out now. I love how you taste baby and that pie? Best pie I’ve ever had,” He croons, peppering kisses over your panties; his voice reverberates against your core.

“Maybe I can have some off you next,” You grunt, screwing your face up in anticipation of the relief that’s soon to come; it does, he tugs off your panties and exposes you to the cool of the air for a mere second before his tongue replaces them.

His tongue curls against your folds, extending and licking at the slick of your sex; his hands cup your hips tightly to hold you still and the solid ridge of his thumb into your skin is bruising. You like it.  

“I hope so.”

He eats you as though you’re an absolute delicacy: his mouth savours every last inch as it glides over you, his tongue dips deep and curves to explore every detail and he sucks greedily at your clit. Every nerve ending screeches and seeks a reprieve from the relentless sweep of his tongue and trace over your folds; somehow he manages to find every sensitive spot and lavish it with attention that gets your hips keening and chest heaving with the effort of keeping quiet.

You give it up. Writhing and squirming, you allow the burble and hum of moans to spew from your throat and render it hoarse.

Diligently, his mouth adores every piece of you. He suckles, even going so far as to nip at your clit and earn a pleading cry of his name. Scrupulously he works you over, tongue drawing tracing invisible symbols on your clit.

“Sir, can I?” You whimper, bringing your hands down to brush through the dirty blonde tufts.

God he practically fucking melts when you thread your fingers through his hair, if he was keen before then he’s enthusiastic as hell now. Slurping at your arousal, he laps it hungrily from its source and liberally runs his tongue all over you; he works faster and with more haste, he can sense that you’re close from the tension of your body and he’s eager to please.

“Taste better than the pie baby,” He compliments against your centre, vibrations working pleasantly through you and adding to the bullet of delight that ricochets around your veins.

He continues, voice quavering and only just audible, “Know how much I love this? Having you, legs around my shoulder and all ready for me. Seeing you shaking just from my mouth, hearing those dirty little noises of yours. Could stay here a long time. Wouldn’t mind that.”

Squealing with glee at the sudden suction, you yank harshly on his hair; it draws a long moan from his lips and if anything it renews his fervour.

Bullets shoot pleasure thick and hot and heavy through every nerve ending, it clogs your system and speeds your heart rate, you half think you’re going to burst from the euphoria that explodes in your stomach and eats away at every part of you. Dean’s mouth is a constant, aching and humming with delight as he works you through your orgasm and all the aftershocks and twitches; his hands intertwine with yours and your nails press into his palms but he doesn’t mind.

When you kiss him again he tastes like cinammon, apples and mostly of you. 

* * *

Your assumptions were right. It does turn into an afternoon of sex, you suck Dean off in the shower that you decide you need to wash the remaining stickiness of the whipped cream away. You wind up putting your outfit back on ready for round two, which is quickly followed by round three and later by round four.

It’s pyjama’s in time for ordering take-out and carving pumpkins, snuggled up in Dean’s lap you snap a picture of the final product. They’re not that bad.

Bedtime comes around midnight, you’re tucked into bed and comforted by the wrap of his arms about your waist. You can hear drunk girls outside but that’s the last of your problems. There’s no doubt that you’ll be able to fall asleep though, you’re too sated from the day and you’re bound to succumb to slumber as soon as possible.  

“I actually had a good Halloween for once,” He kisses your cheek, settling cosily against you with your legs stretched around each others.

You yawn, “I’m glad I made it good.”

Surprisingly he falls asleep first. You decide to forward the pictures of the pumpkins on to Jess, attaching them with the message ‘We had a good night, promise to clean up the apartment before you get home tomorrow. Xxx’

You’re deep asleep when you receive her reply, ‘Actually we’re on our way home now. Xxx’


	9. When Lying Goes Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jess walks in on you and Dean in bed together, surprisingly that's the best thing to happen all day.

“Y/N! Y/N!” Jess’ voice is harsh and your eyes snap open quickly, an unpleasant feeling of nausea washing over you at the same time the light does. She looks pissed.

She death-glares at the sleeping form beside you; it’s Dean. In a momentary panic you gasp, pulling more of the duvet over yourself and shaking your head profusely, “No, no, this isn’t what it looks like, this is-”

“Outside, now.”

Cutting you off, she stalks out without so much as a second glance in your direction. Your knees tremble. Fuck. You’re absolutely fucked. Images swirl before your eyes and almost blind you: Dean’s career shattered, your own academic one left in pieces by the wayside and the wedge driven between you and Jess because of your lies. You can see it all.  

Tugging your dressing gown over your bare form, you take a glance over your shoulder: Dean is strewn with the duvet covering him, only the back of his head and a slice of back visible. Maybe she wouldn’t know it was him.

“Who the hell is that?” She demands, yanking your arm as soon as you’re out of the door, “That’s not Kevin.”

“I know.”

Her eyebrows furrow, “How could you do that to him Y/N? Kevin is a really sweet guy, who the fuck is that in there? Is he some guy from campus?” She moves towards the door and you back against it hurriedly.

“No! Kevin and I, we broke up a few days ago. That’s just some guy from a bar, I got drunk and I brought him home.”

“You and Kevin broke up?”

You nod, “I uh, I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t ready to. I thought we’d get back together but then I saw Kevin with some other girl and I got mad and went and picked up some guy. How about we talk about it later? Once I have a chance to get rid of him, I don’t even know his name.”

Your laugh rings false, and her eyes narrow. Nodding her head slowly, she points towards her bedroom.

“Me and Cas will wait in there until you get rid of him. Then we’re talking.”

She returns to her bedroom, huffing under her breath. And you’re fucked. So wound up in lies that you don’t even have a clue how to begin to unravel yourself. Supposing you should start by getting rid of Dean, you head into the bedroom: he’s now sprawled with the duvet only just covering his crotch. It’d be an arousing sight if it weren’t for the spurts of nausea that jolted you.

“Dean,” You hiss, “You need to wake up. Jess and Cas are home.”

It takes him a second before his eyes snap open, unveiling the horrified glint that sheaths the moss colouring. He scrambles to his feet.

“How am I gonna get out of here? Did they see me?”

You shake your head, “She just saw your back, she came in and you were facing the other way. Jess is in the bedroom so you can get out of here without her seeing.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I’d broken up with Kevin and I didn’t want to tell her because I was still trying to deal with it. That you’re just a random guy I met at the bar, she didn’t ask your name and if she does I’ll just give her a fake one.”

His brash nature is a tad abrasive. He yanks on his clothes, tugging them from the floor; they’re creased and crumpled but he doesn’t spare a second to smooth them.

“Good,” He picks up his jacket, “I should get goin’ then.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have come here Y/N. This was a bad idea, you should have known Jess and Cas might come back.”

You swallow. Stalking towards the door, he doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder before he pulls on the handle and opens it. He glances around nervously.

“I’m sorry,” You murmur; you almost choke on the words but he doesn’t notice. He fakes a smile and steels himself momentarily before opening the door, checking either way and hurrying down the hallway.

Nausea climbs and twines around your organs, squeezing you and forcing nervous sweat from your pores until your palms are clammy and your head spins. He thinks you’ve fucked up.

Jess leaves you alone for a few hours. She’s wise to you, she might be a little miffed at your cop-out explanation yet she senses the importance of leaving you be. You can’t help but call Dean a few times, met by the gruff husk of his voicemail greeting and the monotonous woman asking you to leave your message.

* * *

There’s a knock on your bedroom door.

“Are you ready to talk?” Jess asks softly, her tone much kinder than earlier. She has an apt for sensing the mood – the one in here was not good.

“No, I want some time to myself.”

She sighs; you can tell she’s pursing her lips and Cas must be lingering by her side.

Cas speaks, “Y/N if you’d like some time to yourself then Jess and I will be happy to vacate. Perhaps you might want to call Kevin to talk to him if that’s the issue. Let us know what you want and we’ll do it.”

“I just want some time to myself.”

“We’ll clear out. Charlie had offered to let us stay at hers if need be, we’ll get our things and be out of here. We’re only a phone call away if you need anything.”

The soft babble of Cas and Jess’ bickering fades away to nothing. They do tell you they’re leaving, poking their head around the door and reminding you again that they’ll be right back if you call, that Jess will be coming round to check on you tomorrow. The matter of Dean neither answering nor returning your calls proves to be a bad omen, particularly when you realise his phone is on: it takes a minute for it to reach the voicemail service that time.

Stale tears soak the pillow that your head rests upon. You want to sort this out, to remedy the situation that’d had him looking at you in a way that you’d never wanted to see: disappointed.

You rationalise that it was neither of your faults, that Dean was probably taking some time to cool off and think – that didn’t help the matter of the simmering pot of anxiety that rattled the lid of its pot.

Somewhere between sleep and a daydream you lose yourself.

* * *

_“Jess came over, she said you’re upset. I hope you’re feeling okay. Xxx” – Charlie_

_“You told them we broke up? Are you feeling alright Y/N? I hope everything’s okay with you, give me a call if you need anything.” – Kevin_

**_“Come by my office. We need to talk.”_ ** _– Dean_

The messages await you when you finally rise, with sleepy hair and eyes still rimmed red around the edges. The last is the only one that sticks at. You need to talk.

Since when have those four words ever been foreshadowing of anything good? You collect yourself a little: you fluff your hair with quivering fingers, pulling on a t-shirt and jeans, you don’t even bother to look in the mirror at yourself before you make for the door. The small few steps seem to stretch into some kind of green mile.

You’re greeted by Jo before you’ve even gotten the door open, her weary eyes scanning over you and her arms wrapping tightly around you as she brings you into a hug.

“Y/N! You’re home, thank God,” She breathes.

She absolutely reeks of alcohol. The tell-tale stench of vodka floats on her breath; she teeters in your arms, you steady her. With great care, you lay her down on the couch without saying so much as a word. How did she even know where you live?

“What happened Jo?”

Murmuring indistinctly, she rolls over onto her side, groaning loudly for effect. Like you have time for this. You sink to your knees, clasping her cold hand in yours and biting back a shiver at the temperature difference. She was going to vomit. That much was obvious in the loll of her head and slight roll of her eyes before they closed.

“Don’t you dare throw up on those cushions, Jess will kill you,” You squeeze her hand before pulling away; she tries to cling to it, grunting with distaste as your fingers slip past each other, “I’ll get you a bucket.”

The bucket’s kept under the sink, it’s made exactly for these kinds of situations – truth be told it still stinks a little of last time. Cas’ encounter with purple nurples had been one that left a lasting impression on both the bucket and the rug, the latter having to be replaced a few days later. She winces at the clatter as you retrieve it. You smile apologetically, although unsure exactly as to why, given that she’d turned up unannounced and now threatened to projectile vomit over your belongings.

You bring it over, placing it down next to the couch, “Do you want me to call Jess? She can come and sit with you.”

She shakes her head insistently, voice coming out a croak, “Stay.”

“Jo, I’m really sorry, there are some things I need to sort out right now and…”

She cuts you off with a dry heave, bending her head into the bucket and retching emptily. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, taking a deep breath and relaxing into the pillow; she only acknowledges that you spoke with a brief nod.

“Call Jess,” She whispers, “Tell her not to tell Ruby I’m here.”

There must have been some trouble in paradise. You force a smile, it’s more of a grimace. You leave the room with the phone pressed to your ear; it only has to ring twice before Jess answers.

“Y/N? Is everything okay?” She demands, it’s clear that panic laces her voice and that she’s probably been sat cradling her phone for the past few hours that she’s been gone, “Do you need us to come home? Or just me, Cas is fine if you don’t want him there.”

“You can both come actually. Jo’s here. She’s drunk, I think she had a fight with Ruby or something, would you mind coming to sit with her?”

She lets out a breath, “Of course. How are you feeling? Where are you going?”

There’s another retch and you wince in the direction of Jo, thankfully hidden behind the mahogany of the door, “I just need to go for a walk, get some fresh air. Thanks Jess.”

“No problem.”

“Where are you going?” Jo questions groggily as you head back into the living room; she sprawls across the couch and entangles her limbs tightly in the duvet – you’d be willing to bet that she can’t even move freely from the position she’s trapped herself in.

“I have to go and see Professor Winchester,” You explain – sure it was a poor justification for you gnawing on your fingernails and bouncing on the balls of your feet but it was an excuse.  

She mumbles indistinctly, most of what she says is incoherent and muffled by the pillow. She should feel better later. Jo was the kind of person who got drunk easily but it wore off fast, something had to have happened with Ruby for her to come over like this. Though you had grown closer with her over the past couple of weeks.

“Nurse Jess is here to relieve you,” She winks as she enters, glancing over at Jo and then at you, “You go for your walk Y/N, I can take care of her.”

You thank her on your way out, brushing past Cas who dawdles awkwardly as if not quite knowing where to go, “Feel free to head into my room if you want to, that might be the quietest place to go.”

Cas smiles and nods. He opens his mouth to respond but you’re gone, feet clacking against the stairs noisily in your hurry to be out of there. The cold air bites like a bitch at your bare arms; goose-bumps prickle but your face flushes warm as you dance over the thin slice of ice, limbs moving so fast that it feels like they’re detached. A few strange looks are tossed your way but the owners disappear into the blur of a crowd.

Your lungs burn by the time you get inside. Heaving in a breath, you scan the reception room – Ruby sits sullenly at the desk but that’s a matter you’ll have to attend to later.

Trainers scuffing the tiles, heart somewhere in your stomach, you trudge your way towards his office. A blonde approaches the desk, looking so smart that for a second you have to pause just to admire it: a pencil skirt, platinum hair scraped back into a bun, heels that you’re surprised she can walk in – something about her demeanour tells you you shouldn’t be though. She looks strong.

“Can I help you?” Ruby sniffles, wiping the back of her hand.

She fiddles with her handbag, “Yes, I’m here to see Professor Winchester.”

Why would Dean call if he had an appointment? You freeze for a second, watching Ruby type something and seeing the blank look on her face when it comes up empty.

“Do you have an appointment?”

The blond laughs softly, “I wasn’t aware I needed one to see my husband.”


	10. And I'm Trying to Find My Peace of Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of the aftermath.  
> (If you get the title reference then I'm very happy.)

You feel sick. Nausea soars in your gut, heavily tinged with anger and betrayal. Married? You couldn’t say you’d never considered the possibility but considering it as an actuality? No. He was. He was married and his wife was here with her straightened hair and smooth pencil skirt and you can’t help but feel as though you’re going to projectile vomit everywhere. You have to get out of here.

Ruby points her in the direction with an apology.

“Y/N? Where are you going?”

The brunette shouts in your direction but jellied legs are hot-tailing you towards the door, shaking hands yanking it open before you spill over the steps – miraculously making it to the bottom.

A hard chest juts against your own. Cas’.

It takes the wind out of you, the strength in your sails completely lost under the scrutiny of his gaze: it observes you meticulously and his jaw falls agape with realisation at the hot tears which brim and threaten to spew. You can’t even move – your chest is so tight and legs, body, being, so numb that if you tried to move you’d probably collapse against him.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, just probing enough to project images of Dean and have you falling against him, face buried in the cotton of his jumper and hot tears darkening the navy to black.

“I, just…” You stutter incoherently. It’s easier to surrender to the tsunami of realised dread than to fight it.

All of his movements remind you of Dean: his hands rub cautious circles on your back, the weight of his head on top of yours seems to ground you, the press of his body against yours is a grateful reprieve from the swelling sickness in your gullet. The bitter pill has weakened you. Married.  _Married._  But the gentle ghost of the breath on your forehead still makes you wish that it’s him holding you, him pressed so tightly against you that you feel absolutely cocooned in the safety of his embrace.

How the fuck can you go back to class now?

“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private,” He suggests delicately, careful not to jar you with his movements.

Being alone would be preferable. Wouldn’t it be nice to save face? You nod anyway.

And the world fuzzes: you don’t think he says anything else the entire way back but you can’t be entirely sure, you feel yourself shake with tantamount feelings of anger and betrayal; it’s a sickening combination that has the effect of racing your mind and tampering with any attempts at coherent rationalisation.  _Dean is married_.

The nagging mantra bites at you. Memories come back with a disconcerting tinge to them: the hotel rooms that you always stayed in, how he had the habit of disappearing for days on end, that you’d never even seen the inside of his house.

It’d been glaring you in the face all along. But you’d been on cloud nine, solitary in a quiet daze where things were perfect and happy and the way he looked at you with adoring eyes meant that he loved you, that the plans made at 3am might someday be concrete instead of wishful imagines that were going to simply crumble before your eyes and render you incapable of breathing without a stabbing pain piercing your heart.

How could you go back to class?

Cas leads you inside: vaguely you denote that it’s your apartment and that Jo must have gone to Charlie’s with Jess. You think you remember Cas mentioning about that but you can’t be completely sure.

He settles you into bed but you grip onto him tight, pulling him closer with a newfound vengeance. His face flashes with confusion for a moment before he acquiesces. His body is solid and flushed against yours, warm and cosy like the comfort of a hot water bottle. He doesn’t serve to console you as you desire. Instead he’s the pillow you cry upon, sobbing a small lake onto his chest before succumbing to the demands of slumber. You fear you’ll dream of him.

* * *

Sleep comes in short bursts. It must be like being a newborn, you think, for poor Cas anyway. In his defence he doesn’t leave your side, cradling you gently and hushing promises for it all to be okay before you lose yourself in melancholic dreams again: you do dream of him.

You note that it’s 3am when you wake up probably. It’s with a gasp for breath that you signal your conscious state, face blazing like a furnace and eyes absolutely raw with the effort of the salty tears that still dampen your cheeks. They itch now. Cas sits up immediately, squinting with worry and looking you over completely before he speaks.

“Are you awake now?”

You have to clear your throat to rid yourself of the lump, “I think so.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

That’s the question that makes you want to curl into yourself.  _Do you want to talk about it?_ No. You want to get angry, to smash things, to cry and scream at Dean until he stutters out an apology that you can even begin to suspect he means. You don’t have the energy for any of those things.

“You have some missed calls from Professor Winchester. A lot of them actually, I think there were 5 or 6.”

The quirk of his brow is enough to warn you of his brewing questions. You take the phone from him, not bothering to check the text messages; it’s easier on your heart to shut the thing off rather than read through some kind of shoddy explanation. Less sickening too.

“I was supposed to be meeting him.”

He nods, “Was that why you were there?”

“Yeah,” It’s not necessarily a lie but you still feel weird talking about it so you change the subject, “What were you doing there?”

“I was supposed to be finding Ruby. It transpires that she had some kind of argument with Jo, Jo is rather upset about the whole thing. Ruby wanted to tell her parents about it but Jo was inclined to disagree.”

“Jo’s just very closeted.”

He grimaces in agreement, obviously knowing something that you don’t but you don’t dare pry for fear of raising his scruples about you and the Professor.  

“What are you going to eat? And don’t say you’re not eating anything, you didn’t eat yesterday and you probably didn’t drink enough either. Jess has texted me about twelve times to remind me to take care of you.”

“Has something happened between you and Jess?”

He swallows, “What makes you say that?”

“The way you said about her texting you didn’t make it sound like you’re the happiest couple in the world. What’s going on?”

“We’ve had some disagreements these past few days. Nothing that won’t be ironed out once we have the time to talk about them,” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, lingering on his lips tiredly until he continues, “But you are my priority at this moment in time Y/N. So what are you eating?”

“Some pizza would be good,” You yawn, “Pizza and hot chocolate.”

“And a glass of water.”

You roll your eyes but don’t object. The bed dips as Cas’ weight leaves it, yet you somehow feel more burdened when he leaves the room. You should read the text messages; it was probably for the best but the mere idea of having to flick through the explanations makes your head pound. Your heart too. Things are messed up, things are bad and you have about a million different messages to reply to if you can get round to it. You can’t now.

He re-enters with a glass of water and a steaming hot chocolate, placing them both on the side before sinking to his former position.

“I ordered pizza because we didn’t have any in, your usual.”

“Thank you Cas. You don’t have to do this, you should go back to Jess and try to rectify whatever’s going on with you guys.”

He chuckles, somewhat bitterly, “It’s past 3 in the morning Y/N. Jess will be sleeping.”

You want to argue against him but you swallow it, letting him get comfy and loll his head on your shoulder. His eyes close and his long eyelashes fan across his cheek; it occurs to you that perhaps he hasn’t slept yet.

“Have you been sleeping?”

They open slightly, “No. I was worried about you and your phone kept ringing.”

“You don’t need to be worried about me.”

“You haven’t taken care of yourself properly for two days,” He sighs, “I think there’s a cause for concern. Plus the store called me, you were supposed to have a shift this evening apparently.”

“Oh.”

“I told them that you weren’t very well and apologised for not calling on your behalf. They said you were okay to take the rest of the week off and that they hope you’ll be feeling better soon,” He says quietly, hand stalling to come to rest on the small of your back.

“You didn’t have to do that, I’ll be fine for work tomorrow.”

He laughs, “You have a 8am shift Y/N. It’s 3 now, you haven’t eaten yet. So no, you couldn’t possibly have been in work.”

Snuggling a little closer to him, you allow a yawn and a discrete stretch. It’s comfier now. It briefly crosses your mind that Jess might be annoyed at you for cuddling him, then you remember how many times she’s offered Cas as a pillow in your times of need. It was more often than not that you’d end up squished between them on the couch, with a tight grip on your alcohol of choice.

“Where did you get pizza from at this time of night?”

“I know a place, it’s open all the time. They get a lot of customers because of the fact there’s a college nearby, plenty of kids are up pulling all-nighters for exams they have the next day. It’s mutually beneficial.”

It’s weird being this close to Cas. You’ve gotten so used to Dean’s musk and particular bland of laundry detergent that Cas’ fresh lemon scent is a little disconcerting. Everything about Cas is a little unsettling in its own way: he’s cleanly shaven so you don’t get the same scratch, his hands hold tight rather than splay so as to touch as much of you as possible, his breath smells like lemon tea.

But still your heart thumps in your chest. You can imagine it as Dean.

The husk of his voice would be the last sound you heard before falling asleep, he’d tease you about the way you ate pizza, smile when you rested your head on his chest and felt just how hard his heart was beating. He was always so nervous around you.

He probably had good reason to be. The sickness and odd itch underneath your skin replicates itself tenfold. You sit up a little, pushing gently away from Cas and faking a smile.

“If you want to go and find Jess I really will be fine.”

He tilts his head to the left, “Do you have a problem with me?”

“No!” You blurt, “No, I don’t have any kind of problem with you Cas. I think you’re great and you’re one of my best friends, I love you like hell, I just need to be alone right now.”

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

Azure eyes seer into yours and your heart hums erratically. His jaw is set, his eyes are wild and your heart is trying to jump from your chest. And he’s leaning towards you, Cas is leaning towards you. Dean is leaning towards you, hands on your waist and breath warm against the cool of your chin and grip tightening to bring you closer.

And your lips pucker, ever so slightly, hands unfurling from fists to come to rest on his shoulders: eyes closed, the near touch washes over you in crushing ways and your chest threatens to suffocate you.

They barely touch. Your mouth glides on his, feather light, barely even real, heart exploding into flames in your chest and the sickening flame of betrayal ignites inside of you but it’s Dean, this is Dean, his touch and his taste and the slight chap of his lips, the feel of them against yours and the urgent grip on your waist although your mouths are so chaste, so innocent, so entirely nervous and –

There’s a knock at the door. Loud.

It rumbles and you break apart, dazed and barely even sure that the past few seconds just happened. Cas.

“I should get that,” He practically leaps off the bed, as though you’re some maiden with the plague and he’s some knight that should never have stopped to offer you assistance in the first place. He shouldn’t have.

You just nod and focus on trying not to fall apart.

There’s the sound of the latch, jangling keys, the door being pulled open with a stammered apology about how long it took to answer.

And his voice. Dean’s voice rings true and clear.

“Y/N I…” He trails off, clearing his throat, “I’m guessing you’re her roommate? Is she here?”


	11. More Than You Bargained For?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the aftermath, some honest talking with Dean.

“What do you want, Professor?”

Cas glances between you two, immediately comprehending the tension. It was hard to miss. Dean’s jaw is locked tightly and your eyes gleam the betrayal: the impetus behind the tears that left stains on Cas’ shirt.

Dean speaks, “You didn’t show up to our meeting earlier.”

“So you decided to show up at my apartment at 3am, sir?”

He steals a look between you and Cas, clearing his throat, “I thought you understood that what we had to talk about was important.”

“We don’t need to discuss it anymore.”

His eyes cloud with confusion; he seems to reel in the wake of your blunt manner. You’d never really been that way with him before. Cas hovers awkwardly to your left, unsure of whether his dithering is a hindrance or a help in detracting from the awkwardness. Both.

“Would you two like me to give you some space?”

“If you wouldn’t mind too much, Cas, that’d be great,” Dean nods, stepping sideways to allow Cas to make his break out of the door. He shuts it behind him.

You turn your back, walking towards the couch with purpose in each small stride.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you round on him, “What gives you the right to show up to my apartment at this time of night? I could have been sleeping for all you knew, jackass. What if Jess had been the one to answer the door? What lie would you have chosen to get yourself out of that one?”

“Why didn’t you show up earlier?” He refuses to rise to your anger.

“I did. Then I saw some blonde showing up for her meeting with her husband. Professor Winchester.”

“Some blonde?”

He genuinely sounds perplexed, thin eyebrows weaving with confusion, his Adams apple strains against his skin as he swallows. If you didn’t know better you could close your eyes and believe him, fall into an illusion where none of this is real and you’re lay in between his legs with takeout on your lap and Game of Thrones on the TV.

“Some blonde came in for her appointment with her husband and I heard her say Professor Winchester, Dean, you need to-”

“Y/N, I don’t have a wife. I have a brother.”

You almost want to laugh.

“Sam, you’ve met Sam. Sam’s my brother, he started as a history Professor last week and that must have been his wife you met. Emily, she’s blonde. That’s not my wife Y/N, I’m yours, I’d never cheat.”

The only sound in the room is his weighted sigh, followed by a scathing laugh that escapes you. Shaking your head, you rise to your feet with a singular twist of your body. Anxiety swathes you in hot prickles, stomach warm and head woozy.

“What the hell, Dean? It doesn’t make sense, not being allowed to come back to your place this whole time, the thing with Lisa, things just don’t add up and I don’t get…” You pause for a moment, halted by the lump in your throat, “I just don’t get it. Things have been so up in the air and so confusing and when I finally thought I’d figured out what was going on you’re telling me I’ve gotten it wrong.”

He nods, “I know. I haven’t been completely honest.”

You swallow, “If we’re…if somehow we’re planning on figuring this out then you have to be honest with me, right now.”

“It’s pretty late Y/N, don’t you think we’d be better having this conversation in the morning?”

“You mean once you’ve had chance to come up with a cover story?” You don’t even mean for it to sound so harsh but it does, he visibly reels.

He exhales loudly, “I guess I deserved that. I’ve lied to you, I’m not going to deny that, there’s no point in saying I haven’t done bad things, that I haven’t said things that aren’t true. I’ll be honest with you if you’ll listen. But you look exhausted and I know you, once I’ve told you you’ll be up all night thinking about it.”

“I’ll be up all night anyway.”

It’s obvious to him that this is a battle he’s not going to win, anxiety and worry gnaws at you, you’re still embarrassed from the whole marriage thing even though you _shouldn’t_ be, this is him, it’s his lies and disguises of truth that have brought you here. He forces a smile.

“Where do you want me to start?” He shifts uncomfortably.

You clear your throat, “Where are you living? Why have I never been allowed to come over to your place?”

“I live with my brother Sam and his wife. I was living with Lisa for a long time, I moved out a little after we broke up. It was supposed to only be a couple months but I’ve been there over a year. They’ve got a kid. James, he’s nine months old and he’s the sweetest kid in the world,” He smiles reminiscently, “S’why I could never go home too late, I’d have woken him up going back. And pissing off Emily isn’t my favourite past-time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this in the first place?”

He raises an eyebrow, “It’s humiliating Y/N. I’m living with my baby brother because I fucked up.”

“How did you fuck up? What happened with Lisa, Dean?”

“I cheated on her,” He bows his head, evading eye contact, “I was drinking a lot, things were pretty rough, Ben was in the hospital with pneumonia. Bens’ her kid. But uh, anyway, me and Lisa got into a pretty big fight because she was pissed I hadn’t taken the day off work to sit with Ben. Kid slept all day anyway, I knew I should have taken the day off but I didn’t want to. It was hard being around him. Sammy got sick once when we were younger, nearly died, the hospital reminded me…”

You want to take his hand when he trails off, but you force your hand to lie frigid by your side. He cheated on Lisa. And he’s telling you all of this less than five minutes after vowing he’d never cheat on you?

“Was it a kiss?”

He shakes his head, looking decidedly ashamed, “I hooked up with some girl I met at a bar. I was out of my mind drunk, next morning I wake up in some shady motel room with her sprawled across my chest. Threw up twice before I took off. But Lisa knew.”

The conciliatory nod of your head implores him to continue.

“We tried to make it work after that, for Ben’s sake. He started getting better and I took them on family day’s out, the zoo, that kind of crap,” He poaches a look at the tight press of your lips and decides to spare you the details, “It ended up falling apart anyway. She didn’t trust me, I couldn’t blame her. She wanted to have a kid with me, get married, I didn’t want to and she sorta assumed I was still cheating on her. I wasn’t.”

“And the fighting got worse?”

“A lot worse. For Ben’s sake I moved out, she wanted to try and fix it up but we never did. We wound up hooking up a couple times, that’s why you’ve heard rumours about us. But I swear, I haven’t been near her since May that was the last time I even properly talked to her.”

It’s a lot to process. And you’re sure he understands; his eyebrows furrow and you’re sure he’s worrying about what you’re thinking; his breath hitches in his throat and you’re sure you can feel the emotion rolling off him in waves. His fingers knot around themselves and you can see the glow of nerves in his eyes.

You don’t want him to go yet.

“You should stay,” You whisper, “We’ve got more things to talk about.”

“Like what?”

You swallow, “I haven’t told you about my past either.”

Cuddling up to his side, you tell him the things you hadn’t before. About where you grew up and how strict your parents were, the guy Michael who was your boyfriend for three years, how Michael was a dick and treated you like crap 90% of the time. He listens, without judgement, much like you to his tale. The only proof of his listening is the occasion aah or question – each of which was more of a repetition of something you’d said than a probe – and your eyes grow weary and head heavy against his chest.

“I’m sorry Michael treated you like shit,” He husks, his voice a soft vibration in his chest.

“Worse things have happened,” You smile half-heartedly, altogether worn.

“Are we going to be okay?”

There’s a silence that swells, eating up the miniscule space between your bodies and then encompassing the whole room in a quiet that sears at your eardrums, begging you to answer and end it.

“I don’t know. There’s still a lot we have to talk about, it’s not going to be as easy as telling me about your past. We’ll have to find a way to try and fix us, I guess our dynamic doesn’t work as well as we thought it did. This whole hiding ourselves and only giving away the good parts, that was never going to work,” You yawn, “We haven’t really had a proper relationship up until now.”

He smiles tentatively, “I understand that. I want us to try and work through it, I care about you a lot Y/N.”

“I care about you a lot too.”

Eyes flit nervously, caution a stark barrier between your lips that you found yourself itching to break down. He doesn’t move. You catch him watching your mouth and his own opens to issue an apology, a faint blush creeping across the apples of his cheeks and illuminating him. You silence him with a chaste kiss.

His mouth is warm and soft, the kiss is brief and sweet and your mouth breaks from his before it has time to escalate to something else. You’ve got to take this slow, to work it out, no more rushing into things. You feel like you should have told yourself that _before_ you dry humped the shit out of each other a few days after you met. You laugh aloud and his mouth quirks.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking about how we met. How we got together so fast, how we just thought we could make it work barely knowing each other.”

He grins, “I guess it’s better that this happened sooner rather than later.”

The rumble on the bedroom door interrupts the start of your answer, it changes to a confused, “Cas? Come in!”

Door scraping uncomfortably over the carpet, Cas is revealed with his hand on the handle; his free hand clutches pizza and his eyebrows knit themselves a thick blanket of bewilderment as he takes you both in.

“I came to bring you pizza, I thought he might have gone by now.”

You shake your head, “I think he’ll be staying the night. Thanks for the pizza though Cas, I am a little hungry come to think of it,” You force a smile and take it from his hands, trying to ignore the way that his seem to hold onto yours for a second too long and that he flashes a somewhat menacing glance at Dean. Cas has been drinking.

“You should get to bed,” You tell him, “Jess’ll be home in the morning and you’ll want to be on good form to make things up to her.”

He nods slowly, “I’ll try and get some rest. Make sure you keep it down in here.”

“We weren’t going to-“ You cut yourself off, exchanging a glance with Dean, “We weren’t planning on having sex, Cas. But you’re one to talk, I hardly think I’m the one around here who’s having rampant loud sex.”

It’s a joke but he doesn’t seem to get it. He fakes a smile, nodding, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

As soon as he’s, presumably, out of earshot, Dean speaks, “What the hell is wrong with that guy? He seem a little creepy to you?”

“He’s a really good guy. He’s stressed, he had a fight with his girlfriend and he’s had a little too much to drink. He’ll be fine by the morning, he probably won’t remember this whole thing and if he does he’ll apologise. He won’t say anything to anyone, about us, about you being here, he wouldn’t want to piss Jess off.”

You both laugh at your light-hearted joke, but neither of you can find it in your hearts to truly believe it.  

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series! Please leave comments with feedback and don't forget to leave kudos if you enjoyed it! :)


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